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MAY  ISABEL  FISK 


/lib  o  n  o  I  o  cj  u  e  s 


Ibarper  &  Brotbers  publisbers 

flew  Uorft  anD  XonDon 
I  903 


■gbl 


THE  PLAYS  IN  THIS  VOLUME  ARE  COPY- 
RIGHTED AS  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITIONS. 
STAGE  AND  PLATFORM   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


*   « 


•  * 

•  »  « 

i       « 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  November,  1903. 


Contents 


Keeping  a  Seat  at  the  Benefit 
"Her  First  Call  on  the  Butcher 
Hunting  for  an  Apartment 
The  Heart  of  a  Woman  .  . 
A  Bill  from  the  Milliner  . 
A  Woman  in  a  Shoe-shop 
Another  Point  of  View  . 
Mis'  Deborah  Has  a  Visitor 

The  Pudding 

The  Year  After        .... 
Heard  on  the  Beach    . 


PAGE 

3 

21 

55 
81 

99 

"3 
123 

145 

159 
177 


"The  Pudding,"  "Heard  on   the   Beach"    and  "Another 
Point  of  View,"  are  reprinted,  by  permission,  from  "  Smart  Set." 


M124572 


•* 


& 


& 


Ikeeping  a  Seat  at  tbe  Benefit 


& 


& 


& 


Ikeepincj  a  Seat  at  tbe  Benefit 

jEVER  mind,  usher,  never 
mind.  I  see  two  seats; 
I  think  I  can  get  there 
before  that  fat  woman 
does. 

[Rushes  forward,  seats  herself  in  one 
chair,  placing  her  umbrella  in  the 
other.     Breathlessly: 
Thank  goodness,  I've  got  them. «  [As 
fat  woman  approaches.]   .   .   .  Yes,   I've 
taken  both.     I'm  sorry.  ...  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I'm  keeping  this  seat  for  a  friend. 
.  .  .  This  seat  occupied? — I — oh,  I  under- 
stand.    No,   but   I'm  keeping   it   for  a 
friend.  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  engaged;  I'm  keeping 

3 


<   <  ( 


I 


■ 


Monologues 

it  for  a  friend.  I  expect  her  every  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  Well,  I  wish  she'd  come.  This 
is  most  unpleasant.  .  .  .  Excuse  me, 
madam,  but  I'm  keeping  this  seat.  .  .  . 
But  you  see  my  umbrella's  on  it,  and  I 
never  put  an  umbrella  on  a  chair  unless 
I'm  keeping  it  for  a  friend.  I  expect — 
[She  turns.]  Why,  there  she  is  now — so 
sorry. 

[Hails  some  one  in  distance.  Panto- 
mime and  loud  whisper. 
Got  a  seat.  Got  a  seat.  ...  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I'm  keeping  this  seat  for  a  friend. 
...  Oh  my !  I — I —  How  dreadful !  I 
thought  it  was  the  friend  I'm  waiting  for. 
I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  made 
such  a  mistake,  but,  don't  you  know,  so 
many  women  seem  to  look  alike  with 
their  hats  on !     So  stupid ! 

[Unobserved,  old  lady  takes  vacant  seat. 

4 


fIDonologues 

I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I'm  keeping 
this  seat  for  a  friend.  [Louder.]  I  beg 
your  pardon,  but  I'm  keeping  this  seat 
for  a  friend.  .  .  .  Don't  you  hear?  .  .  . 
Oh,  you're  deaf.  .  .  .  Goodness!  I  never 
talked  into  one  of  those  things  before! 
Er — I — er —  .  .  .  No,  I  haven't  said  any- 
thing yet.  I'm  just  thinking  what  I'm 
going  to  say. 

I  once  had  a  grandmother  who  was 
very  deaf.  .  .  .  You  are  not  very  deaf? 
No,  no,  I  didn't  think  you  were.  What 
I  meant  to  say  was,  I'd  like  to  give  you 
this  seat,  but  I'm  keeping  it  for  a  friend. 
. . .  What  ?  You  are  glad  to  keep  it  ?  No, 
no.  I  said  I  was  keeping  it  for  a  friend. 
.  .  .  You're  pleased  to  be  friends?  Oh 
no!  I  said  I — am — keeping — this — seat 
—  for  —  a  —  friend  —  and  I  shall  have 
to  ask  you  to  get  up.  ...  I  didn't  mean  to 

5 


flDonologues 

offend  you.  Now  she's  going  off  mad. 
I  never  will  try  to  keep  a  seat  for  any 
one  again.  .  .  . 

Boy,  boy,  programme  boy,  what  time 
is  it?  .  .  .  Five  minutes  of  two?  They  are 
to  commence  at  two,  aren't  they?  .  .  . 
Well,  they  never  do  commence  on  time, 
do  they?  .  .  .  Come  back;  wait  a  minute. 
Now,  do  you  mean  two  o'clock  by  your 
time  or  the  time  down  on  the  stage? 
Couldn't  you  find  out? 

And,  boy,  if  you  see  a  lady  in  a  dark 
skirt  and  a  light  waist,  who  seems  to  be 
looking  for  some  one,  won't  you  please 
tell  her  I'm  here,  'way  up  in  the  second 
balcony,  round  by  the  stage?  And — 
Boy,  bey,  come  back  here!  I  want  a 
programme.  .  .  . 

I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  keeping  this 
seat  for —    Twenty-five  cents!     Well,  I 

6 


flDonoiOQuea 

don't  want  it.  I  never  heard  of  charging 
twenty-five  cents  for  a  programme.  ...  I 
don't  care  if  it  is  a  benefit.  Besides,  all 
those  you  want  to  hear  never  come,  and 
they  fill  up  with  anybody,  and  ...  I'm 
keeping  this  seat  for  a  friend.  .  .  .  No,  I 
don't  think  there  is  any  rule  about  it.  Of 
course,  if  the  performance  begins  before 
my  friend  comes,  I—  .  .  .  It's  not  two 
o'clock  yet.  .  .  .  Well,  it  may  be  by  your 
watch,  but  it's  not  by  the  programme 
boy's  time,  and  they  are  going  to  begin 
by  his  time,  and  be  late  at  that.  ...  I 
don't  care  to  quarrel  over  a  question  of 
that  description  with  an  utter  stranger. 
But  I  certainly  shall  not  give  up  this  seat ! 
.  .  .  They  are  your  seats  ?  You  witt  see  an 
usher  about  it?  By  all  means,  by  all 
means.  .  .  .  Your  opinion  is  a  matter  of 
utter  indifference  to  me! 

7 


fIDonologues 

.  .  .  No,  I  am  keeping  this  seat  for  a 
woman  who  was  once  my  friend.  I  beg 
you  will  pardon  my  being  so  upset,  but 
that  woman  over  there — the  one  in  the 
hideous  red  hat  just  going  around  the 
corner  —  fairly  insulted  me  because  I 
wouldn't  give  up  these  seats.  .  .  . 

Yes,  yes — I'd  be  very  glad  to  have  your 
little  boy  sit  here  while  you  look  for  seats. 
You  see,  when  you  are  really  sitting  in 
them  they  can't  turn  you  out.  What  a 
dear  little  man  he  is!  I'm  so  fond  of 
children.  .  .  .  All  right,  take  your  time. 
.  .  .  There,  upsy-daisy — now  sit  still.  .  .  . 
Yes,  you  can  hold  the  umbrella,  but  don't 
thump  on  the  floor  with  it.  Ouch !  That 
went  right  on  my  foot.  Don't  do  that 
again.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wouldn't  do  that — little 
gentlemen  don't  put  umbrella  handles  in 
their  mouths.     That  isn't  nice  for  little 

8 


fIDonologues 

men  to  stand  in  seats.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps 
your  mamma  does  let  you,  but  you 
sha'n't  do  it  while  you're  with  me.  Now, 
get  down — get  down!  .  .  .  Don't  cry! 
Don't  cry !  Don't  scream  so !  Everybody 
is  looking  at  us.  .  .  .  Stand  up  again  if 
you  want  to — eat  the  umbrella  if  you 
like,  but  stop  screaming.  .  .  .  Don't  run 
away.  You  can't  find  your  mamma  in 
this  crowd,  and  you've  got  my  umbrella. 
Come  back — come  back!  .  .  .  What  am 
I  going  to  do?  If  I  leave,  some  one  will 
take  the  seats,  and  if  I  don't  chase  that 
little  imp  I'll  lose  my  umbrella.  v  I'd 
better  go.  .  .  .  Here,  you  naughty  boy, 
give  me  my  umbrella.  You  are  very, 
very  wicked  —  you  will  never  go  to 
heaven.  .  .  .  You  dreadful  child  — 
where  did  you  learn  such  perfectly  aw- 
ful    language  ?      Just    you     find    your. 

9 


ADonolOQues 

mother.      Don't    you    dare    come   back 
here. 

.  .  .  Just  as  I  thought!  I  beg  your 
pardon,  ladies,  but  these  are  my  seats. 
...  Of  course  you  have  only  my  word  for 
it.  You  see,  I  was  sitting  in  one  and 
keeping  the  other  for  a  friend,  and  just 
now  I  had  to  go  after  that  naughty  little 
umbrella  that  had  run  away  with  my 
boy.  You  see,  his  mother  had  left  it — 
.  .  .  Don't  I  make  myself  clear?  .  .  .  She 
went  to  look  for  others,  and —  .  .  .  Thank 
you  very  much.  Now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  I  don't  remember  exactly  whether 
I  was  to  keep  a  seat  for  my  friend  or  she 
was  to  keep  one  for  me.  .  .  .  Oh  no,  I 
wouldn't  care  to  give  up  the  seats  until 
I  was  sure  which  way  it  was.  You 
might  come  back.  .  .  .  There  she  is,  there 
she  is.  [Beckons  frantically. 

10 


Monologues 

Madeline,  why  didn't  you  come  before? 
You  know  when  I  say  I'll  be  at  a  certain 
place  at  a  certain  time  I'm  always  there, 
and  here  I've  waited  for  ages  and  been  in- 
sulted by  a  horrid  woman  in  a  red  hat; 
once  a  deaf  old  woman,  a  perfectly  nice 
old  woman,  was  insulted  unintentionally 
by  me;  and — once —  Well,  at  least  ex- 
plain why  you  didn't  come  and —  .  .  . 
Your  Nora's  left?  Well,  I  won't  say  I 
thought  she  would,  my  dear,  but  I  do 
believe  in  treating  a  servant  like  a  human 
being.  I  certainly  hope  you  will  get  one 
this  time  you  can  keep.  Where  did  you 
go?  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  sorry  you  went  to  Mrs. 
Casey's ;  her  girls  are  no  good  at  all.  They 
simply  won't  stay.  ...  I  ought  to  know — 
I  had  six  cooks  from  her  last  month; 
they  wouldn't  stay. 

Now  which  seat  do  you  want — this  one  ? 

1 1 


flDonolOQites 

I  don't  care  at  all.  Perhaps  you —  .  .  . 
It  doesn't  matter  one  particle.  .  .  .  Just  as 
you  like.  .  .  .  Very  well.         [They  sit  down. 

You  know  that  waist  looks  as  well  on 
you  as  anything  I've  ever  seen  you  have 
on.  You  can  wear  those  stripes  running 
round,  having  no  fig —  I  mean,  being  so 
slender.  I  can't  at  all.  Where  did  you 
get  the  material?  .  .  .  Not  there,  really? 
Such  a  common  store,  I  didn't  know  you 
could  get  anything  decent  there.  .  .  .  I — 
oh — I  was  there  only  once,  and  then  not 
to  buy  anything  for  myself — I  was  just 
getting  some  Christmas  presents  for  Mr. 
Stewart's  family. 

...  It  must  be  heavenly,  but  we  can't 
have  a  thing  fried  in  lard — not  a  thing. 
Of  course  I  like  it,  but  on  account  of  Mr. 
Stewart's  dyspepsia.  My  dear,  you  don't 
know  what  you're  spared,  having  a  hus- 

12 


fl&onologues 

band  without  dyspepsia.  .  .  .  Yours  has 
what?  .  .  .  Oh,  golf!  That's  nothing — 
he  can't  have  that  with  him  all  the  time. 

What  did  you  think  of  the  Davises' 
euchre? .  .  .  That's  just  what  I  said  to  Mr. 
Stewart.  If  you  can't  give  a  thing  right, 
don't  give  it  at  all.  .  .  .  How  did  you  like 
the  chicken  salad?  .  .  .  Well,  I  was  sus- 
picious of  it,  and  that  night  when  we  got 
home  Mr.  Stewart  had  the  most  awful 
attack.  That  settled  it.  I  said  right 
away  the  chicken  that  made  that  salad 
never  had  feathers — not  much — four  legs 
and  hair.  .  .  .  Veal,  of  course.  .  .  .  What 
did  you  think  of  the  prizes?  .  .  .  That 
olive-dish?  .  .  .  No,  it  wasn't — it  looked 
so,  but  I  went  up  and  felt  of  it. 

What's  that  rumbling?  I  suppose  it's 
commencing.  I  can't  see  one  thing  but 
that  little  door  on  the  side  of  the  stage 

*3 


fiDonoioaues 

and  the  man  with  the  cymbals.  I  think 
it's  a  ridiculous  idea,  anyway,  having  a 
benefit  in  a  theatre!  If  I'd  been  con- 
sulted—  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  was  asked,  even 
begged,  to  go  on  the  committee,  but  I 
wouldn't.  The  people  who  don't  do  any- 
thing always  sit  around  and  criticise 
those  that  get  the  thing  up;  and  I  must 
say  this  affair  is  about  the  worst  managed 
I  ever  attended — no  one  seems  to  know 
his  business. 

If  this  woman  in  front  of  me  is  going  to 
stand  up,  I  am  too.  .  .  .  [Turns  to  woman 
back  of  her.]  I'm  sorry,  madam,  but  you 
see  this  lady  in  front  of  me  is  standing  up, 
and  I'm  sure  if  she  does  I  don't  know  why 
I  shouldn't.  So  why  don't  you  stand  up  ? 
.  .  .  Oh,  very  well.  [Seats  herself  angrily.] 
Madam,  if  you  must  stand  up,  would  you 
mind  taking  your  hat  off?  .   .   .  Thank 

14 


you.  .  .  .  [To  woman  back  of  her.]  Cer- 
tainly. [Removes  her  hat.]  [To  friend.] 
That  disagreeable  woman  is  bent  on  an- 
noying me.  She  can't  see,  anyway,  so 
what  earthly  good  does  it  do  her  for  me 
to  take  my  hat  off?  Just  spite.  Well, 
I'm  going  to  have  one  look  at  that  stage, 
anyway.  [Rises  hastily.]  There  goes  my 
hat  in  that  woman's  seat!  [Taps  arm  of 
woman  in  front.]  I  beg —  .  .  .  [To  woman 
back  of  her.]  I'm  only  standing  up  for 
one  moment  to  have  one  look  at  the  stage. 
[Turns.]  You're  sitting  on  my  hat!  .  .  . 
Of  course  you  didn't  do  it  intentionally, 
but  it's  just  as  hard  on  the  hat.  Oh, 
don't  say  anything  more  about  it.  You 
see,  I  just  dropped  it,  and  was  going  to 
call  your  attention  to  it  when  this  person 
asked  me  to  sit  down. 

Now,  Madeline,  look  at  that  hat.  .  .  . 

i5 


flDonologues 

Oh,  it's  very  well  to  say  put  a  bow  on  here 
and  a  flower  there.  I  should  never  feel 
the  same  in  it  again.  I  never  could  bear 
to  wear  a  hat  that  had  been  sat  on.  I 
had  an  aunt  once  who —  .  .  .  Please  don't 
say  another  word  about  it;  I  know  it 
wasn't  your  fault. 

I  don't  feel,  Madeline,  as  though  I  could 
enjoy  anything  now.  There  comes  that 
horrid  woman  in  the  red  hat  again.  She 
has  an  usher  with  her. 

.  .  .  What!  These  seats  are  reserved! 
Why  wasn't  I  told  of  it  before?  It  is  a 
very  strange  thing  that  people  with  re- 
served seats  shouldn't  come  earlier — I 
am  very  glad,  though,  to  give  them  to 
you.  Usher,  where  can  I  find  other  seats  ? 
.  .  .  Not  another  in  the  house?  Well,  it's 
very  strange  management  to  pack  a  house 
so  that  you   can't  get   a   seat!     It's   a 

16 


flDonologues 

perfect  outrage,  after  all  the  trouble  I 
had  to  keep  these  seats,  and  getting  my 
hat  sat  on,  and  being  insulted  by  no  end 
of  people!  I  don't  see  anything  to  do 
but  for  us  to  go  home.     I  hope  you  will 

enjoy  the  seats! 

[Exit  with  a  flounce. 


1ber  jfirat  Call  on  tbe  Butcber 


Iber  jfirat  Call  on  tbe  Butcber 

She  enters,  shakes  skirt  free  of  sawdust, 
and  wrinkles  nose  in  disgust.  She 
moves  uncertainly,  finally  points  at 
one  man. 


pU,  if  you  please.  Good- 
morning.  I  want  to  look 
at  something  for  dinner. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know  what 
I  want — just  show  me  what 
Of  course  I  can't  tell  what 
I  want  till  I  see  what  you  have,  and  even 
then  it's  very  hard.  .  .  .  Yes,  just  us  two. 
.  .  .  Well,  the  platter  we  use  ordinarily 
for  dinner — I  don't  use  the  best  set  for 


you  have. 


21 


fiDonoloQues 

every  day,  but  this  one  is  really  very 
pretty,  white  with  little  pink  roses — 
Well,  it's  about  so  long  and  so  wide,  and 
I  would  like  something  to  fill  it  nicely. 
...  I  can't  think  of  one  thing.  What  are 
these?  .  .  .  Chops?  Well,  I  never  saw 
chops  growing  in  bunches  before.  .  .  . 
I  don't  care — when  I  was  at  home  we 
often  had  chops,  but  they  weren't  like 
that,  but  sort  of  one  and  one,  with  little 
bits  of  parsley  around  them.  .  .  .  You 
cut  them  up?  Oh — oh — oh —  I  sup- 
pose different  butchers  have  different 
ways.  .  .  . 

I  don't  think  I  care  for  that  kind  of 
chops,  anyway — I  mean  those  with  the 
little  tails.  I  like  the  ones  with  the  long, 
thin  bones.  .  .  .  French  chops?  Oh  no, 
they  weren't  imported — oh  no,  because 
the  cook  used  to  go  out  any  time  and  get 

22 


fllionolOQues 

them.  .  .  .  Oh — oh — oh — you  do?  .  .  . 
They  are?  ...  I  see.  .  .  .  I'll  take  some. 
.  .  .  How  many? — oh — I — er —  Why, 
about  as  many  as  you  usually  sell.  .  .  . 
Well,  let  me  see — Mr.  Dodd  generally 
eats  about  a  dozen  oysters  at  a  time — I 
don't  mean  all  at  once,  you  know — so 
for  both  of  us  I  think  about  two  dozen. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  can  send  for  more  if  that  isn't 
enough. 

You  are  quite  sure  you  have  the  best 
— best — description  of  chops?  .  .  .  Well, 
you  see,  our  cook,  Lillian — such  an  odd 
name  for  an  Irish  cook — I  mean  our  cook 
at  home  before  I  was  married  —  she 
wanted  me  to  employ  the  same  butcher 
we  had  then,  but  as  I  told  mamma  then,  I 
thought  it  was  more  a  matter  of  sentiment 
with  Lillian  than  meat.  She  was  the 
most  disobliging  girl  except  when  it  came 

23 


HDonologues 

to  buying  chops,  and  she  was  always  only 
too  ready  to  run  out  after  them.  One 
afternoon  I  was  just  going  up  the  steps 
— I  had  been' to  a  tea,  I  think — anyway, 
I  know  I'd  had  an  awfully  stupid  time. 
Well,  there  was  Lillian  at  the  area  gate 
talking  to  a  man  who  had  " chops" 
written  all  over  him.  So  when  Lillian 
said —  [Turns.]  I'm  in  great  haste 
myself,  madam.  [To  butcher.]  You  will 
kindly  finish  waiting  on  me  before  you 
attend  to  any  one  else.  Where  did  I 
leave  off?  Oh  yes.  He  was  a  little, 
thick-set  man  with  black,  curly  hair  and 
mustache.  Do  you  know  him?  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  thought  probably  all  butchers  knew 
one  another.  .  .  . 

I  would  like  to  look  at  some  chickens, 
please.  .  .  .  Why,  it  hasn't  any  feathers! 
...  It  did?  .  .  .  You  have? ...  It  was? .  .  . 

24 


flDonologues 

Oh — oh — oh.  I  don't  like  the  color — it 
seems  very  yellow.  .  .  .  Because  it's  fat? 
Well,  I  don't  want  a  fat  chicken — neither 
Mr.  Dodd  nor  myself  eat  a  bit  of  fat.  .  .  . 
Oh — oh — oh.  I  can't  help  it — I  don't 
like  the  color  of  that  chicken — you'll 
pardon  my  saying  so,  but  it  does  look 
very  bilious.  Why,  what  are  you  break- 
ing its  bones  for  ?  I  wouldn't  take  it  now 
under  any  circumstances.  .  .  .  Perhaps, 
but  Mr.  Dodd  wouldn't  like  me  to  buy  a 
damaged  chicken.  There,  I  like  those 
chickens  hanging  up.  .  .  .  No,  no,  not  that 
one — farther  along — no — yes,  yes,  that's 
it — the  blue-looking  one  with  the  large 
face.  ...  I  don't  care,  I  like  its  looks  much 
better  than  the  other  one.  Now,  let  me 
see — there  was  something  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  about  that  chicken — wait  a  minute 
— I'll  have  it  directly — I've  been  taking 

25 


flDonologues 

a  course  of  memory  lessons.  M — m — m 
—  something  about  a  boat  —  a  tiller,  a 
centre-board,  a  sheet,  a  sail,  a  mainsail — 
that's  almost  it — a  ji — ji — a  jib — that's 
it — giblets!     Be  sure  to  send  the  giblets. 

Where's  my  list?  I  thought  I  put  it  in 
my  bag,  but —  No,  I  can't  find  it.  Isn't 
that  exasperating!  I  remember  making 
it  out,  and  then  I  laid  a  little  sample  of 
white  silk  with  a  black  figure  in  it  on  the 
desk  —  yes,  I  remember  perfectly.  Oh 
yes,  and  then  the  sample  or  the  list — 
you  see,  the  sample  with  the  thin,  black 
figure  really  looked  like  the  list.  Well, 
one  or  the  other  must  have  fallen  on  the 
floor,  for  I  remember,  too,  my  little  dog 
chewing  something  as  I  came  out — yes, 
that  must  have  been  it.  .  .  .  It  really 
doesn't  matter  specially. 

Mr.  Dodd  says  always  have  plenty  of 

26 


fIDonologues 

beef,  so  you  might  send  a  few  steaks.  .  .  . 
What?  Porter-house  or  sirloin?  I — er 
— I  don't  think  we  care  for  any  of  those 
fancy  ones — just  some  plain  steaks  will 
do. 

Now  please  send  the  things  very  early 
this  morning,  because  we  dine  at  seven, 
and  Mr.  Dodd  doesn't  like  to  wait.  .  .  . 
Yes,  that's  all,  I  think  —  that's  all  — 
Why,  the  idea — it's  Friday,  and  our  girl 
doesn't  eat  a  bit  of  meat  on  Friday — you 
will  have  to  take  all  of  those  things  back. 
Just  send  around  a  few  nice  fishes,  and 
be  sure  and  send  their  giblets!  Good- 
morning. 


*&  &  *&> 


Tbuntine  for  an  apartment 


«5»  «£w  ^ 


Ibunting  for  an  Hpartment 

JHERE,     Dicky,     I'm     all 

ready   but    my    veil,    and 

I'm  going  to  let  you  tie 

it   on  for  me.     Well,  you 

needn't  look  so  frightened, 
it  won't  hurt  you.     It's  quite  time  you 

learned  how,  for  in  just  one  month  and 
six  days —  O-o-o-h,  Dicky !  You'll  rub 
all  the  powder  off — now  don't  be  foolish 
any  more.  I  wonder  when  you'll  get 
real  sensible ?  I'll  just  hate  you  when  you 
do — so !  Now  tie  my  veil ;  we  haven't  any 
time  to  lose.  .  .  .  No,  not  another  one. 

Now,  just  take  the  ends — no,  don't  pull 
it.     Wait— wait  till  I  get  it  in  the  middle. 

3* 


flDonoloQuea 

Goodness!  It's  all  come  off.  There, 
now — try  again.  Roll  the  ends — oh  no, 
not  as  though  you  were  twisting  a  rope. 
Now  tie  it — easy — not  so  loose;  it  feels 
floppy.  Tighter!  U-u-h-h-h!  Untie  it 
quick — I  didn't  know  you  were  so  stupid 
.  .  .  Well,  I  have —  Well,  just  once  more 
...  I'll  tie  it  myself.     Now  I'm  ready.  .  . 

Take  Jerry?     Oh  no;  see,  he's  asleep 
.  .  .  Leave  him  alone.  .  .  .  He's  so  big.  .  . 
Well,  I  just  want  you  to  know,  Mr.  Dick 
I'm  not  going  to  be  bossed  and  made  to 
do  things  I  don't  want  to,  and  the  sooner 
you  understand  it  the  better,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  take  Jerry,  and —  .  .  .  [Whistles.] 
Oh,    come    on,    Jerry  —  come    on,    old 
doggy ! 

Have  you  got  the  paper  with  those 
advertisements  I  marked?  .  .  .  Then 
you've  lost  it.  .  .  .  Yes — yes — I  did.  .  .  . 

32 


fIDonologues 

Dicky,  I  certainly  gave  it  to  you.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  where  you  put  it.  .  .  .  No, 
I  did.  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't.  .  .  .  You  did.  .  .  . 
I'll  look  just  to  oblige  you,  but  of  course 
I  know —  Well,  did  you  ever !  Here  it  is 
on  the  table.  I  wonder  how  it  got  there 
— just  where  I  left  it — but  I  remember 
perfectly  well  giving  it —  Never  mind, 
we've  got  it — that's  the  important  thing. 
I  have  about  engaged  that  girl  I  spoke 
of .  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't  ask  her  for  her  refer- 
ence. .  .  .  No,  I  didn't  exactly  forget  it, 
but  I  think  it's  insulting,  anyway.  How- 
ever, she's  perfectly  honest.  .  .  .  Well,  if 
you  must  know,  I  asked  her  and  she  said 
she  was.  .  .  .  Very  well,  but  if  she  doesn't 
know,  who  does?  Now,  answer  me  that, 
Mr.  Lawyer.  .  .  .  Yes,  she's  colored.  Those 
colored  girls  don't  seem  to  eat  anything, 
and  the  Irish  ones  have  awful  appetites, 

3  33 


Monologues 

so  I  would  rather  trust  to  one  stealing 
something  occasionally  than  to  have  a 
girl  eating  a  lot  all  the  time.  You'd  find, 
in  the  end,  the  colored  one  was  the 
cheaper. 

Oh,  is  this  the  first  on  the  list  ?  This  is 
lovely.  I  know  I  shall  like  to  live  here — 
those  cunning  little  carved  heads  over  the 
windows.  And  such  nice  people  in  the 
house,  too.  .  .  .  What  do  I  mean?  Look 
at  those  curtains  on  the  second  floor — real 
lace.  I  guess  I  know  what  kind  of  people 
live  behind  those  curtains.  Now,  I'm 
going  to  do  all  the  talking,  and  don't  you 
say  one  word.  ...  I  generally  do?  That 
is  polite.  We  are  going  to  pretend  we're 
married — it  won't  be  half  as  embarrass- 
ing. And  if  you  say  any  more  rude  things 
like  that,  I  won't  even  have  to  intimate 
it.  .  .  .  Never  mind,  never  mind.  .  .  .  You 

34 


flDonologues 

can't  very  well  kiss  me  here  in  the  street. 
.  .  .  Let's  go  in.  .  .  .  No,  it's  not  a  hint, 
stupid.  [They  enter. 

I  like  those  palms.  .  .  .  Why,  no,  they're 
not—  They  are—  Well,  I'll  feel.  No, 
they're  not  real.  Still,  if  we  like  the 
rooms,  I  wouldn't  let  that  make  us 
decide  against  the  place. 

We  are  looking  for  an  apartment,  my 
hus — hus — why,  my — just  my  husband 
and  I.  What  have  you?  .  .  .  Only  one 
vacant?  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course  we  only  want 
one,  but  I  always  like  to  see  two  or  more, 
because  if  you  haven't  several  to  choose 
from,  how  do  you  know  which  one  you 
want  ?.."...  Ground  floor  ? .  .  .  Have  you  an 
elevator?  .  .  .  I'm  glad  of  that — I  must 
have  an  elevator.  .  .  .  What  difference 
does  it  make,  if  we're  on  the  first  floor, 
Dicky?     I  don't  care  if  we  don't  use  it 

35 


fifconolooues 

—I  like  an  elevator — I  just  like  to  know 
it's  there  if  I  did  want  to  use  it — so!  .  .  . 
Yes,  we  will  look  at  —  Jerry  is  always 
under  my  feet,  Dicky,  he's  so  big — I  said 
not  to  bring  him. 

Oh,  my!  what  a  very  thin  hall!  It 
would  make  a  lovely  bowling-alley.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  suppose  so — the  hall  doesn't  really 
matter  much.  As  you  say,  you  only  use 
it  to  get  somewhere  else.  .  .  .  Yes — yes. 
.  .  .  What  lovely  big  closets!  .  .  .  What? 
— they're  bedrooms  ?  My  goodness !  I — 
why —  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  true,  you  really 
only  need  a  bedroom  to  sleep  in,  and  of 
course  you  don't  need  light  when  you 
are  asleep,  and  it's  dark  everywhere  at 
night,  anyway. 

This  is  the  dining-room  ?  .  .  .  I  thought 
so,  because  it's  too  small  to  put  a  table  in. 
...  Oh,  they  make  them  all  that  way? 

36 


flDonologues 

...  It  is  pretty  dark.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is 
true — yes,  I  suppose  so —  He  says, 
Dicky,  no  one  uses  the  dining-room 
except  to  eat  in,  and  you  always  can 
find  your  mouth  even  if  you  can't 
see. 

I  know  this  is  the  parlor — by  that  mirror 
over  the  mantel-shelf.  But  isn't  it  rather 
peculiar  having  the  parlor  windows  look- 
ing out  in  the  back?  .  .  .  Oh,  the  architect 
wanted  to  have  this  house  different  from 
other  apartments?  I  see.  I  like  things 
a  little  odd  myself.  But,  dear  me,  do 
those  people  over  there  always  have  their 
clothes  on  the  line  ?  I  shouldn't  like  that. 
.  .  .  You  would  speak  to  them  about  it? 
.  .  .  Oh,  that  would  be  all  right,  then. 
Thank  you.  Who  lives  on  the  next  floor  ? 
Is  that  so?  .  .  .  How  lovely  to  live  in  the 
same  house  with  a  real  playwright!    I've 

37 


fIDonologuea 

never  seen  one,  but  I've  heard  they  are 
so  quiet  and  refined.  I  said  to  D — to — to 
— tomyhus — husband —  It's  so  absurd, 
but  I  can't  quite  get  used  to  saying  "my 
husband,"  though  we  have  been  married 
a  great  many  years.  Well,  I  said  as  we 
came  in  I  knew  the  right  sort  of  people 
lived — why,  don't,  Dicky — behind  those 
curtains.  They  are  right  over  our  heads, 
aren't  they?  .  .  .  They  entertain  every 
Sunday  afternoon?  .  .  .  How  delight- 
fully bohemian —  Good  heavens!  what's 
that?  Oh,  my,  I  heard  something  smash. 
Why,  they'll  come  through  the  ceiling. . . . 
What? — they're  just  having  one  of  their 
entertainments  ?  .  .  .  They  are  singing — 
listen! — ''There  will  be  a  hot  old  time." 
I  don't  think  that  sounds  very  literary. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I've  heard  geniuses  are  always 
eccentric.  .  .  .  You  say  it's  only  on  Sun- 

38 


flDonologues 

day?  That  isn't  so  bad.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is 
cheerful. 

Well,  now,  where  is  Jerry  going  to 
sleep  ?  .  .  .  How  old  is  he  ?  Why,  how  old 
is  he,  Dicky? .  .  .  No,  I  don't  know  exactly 
either — about  a  year,  I  should  think.  .  .  . 
Don't  allow  children?  .  .  .  Oh,  oh — you 
don't  understand.  We're  only  —  we 
aren't — we  haven't —  Jerry's  the  dog! 
.  .  .  What's  the  rent  of  this  apartment? 
.  .  .  Strange  you  should  have  to  go  to 
find  out. 

Well,  you  might  have  said  something, 
Dicky.  I  never  was  so  embarrassed,  in 
my  life.  ...  I  know  I  said  I  wanted  to  do 
all  the  talking,  but  it  came  to  such  a 
dreadful —     Hush!  here's  the  man. 

Well?  .  .  .  The  apartment  is  already 
rented!  Then  why  did  you  show  it? — 
Dicky,  he's  looking  very  strangely  at  us 

39 


fIDonologues 


— do  you  think  it  was  about  Jerry  ?  It's 
as  well,  for  my  hus — husband  and  I  have 
just  decided  we  would  not  care  to  take 
the  place  anyway.  I  don't  like  the  way 
the  wall  -  papers  are  arranged.  If  you 
could  take  this  one  and  put  it  in  the 
parlor,  and  put  the  parlor  in  the  dining- 
room,  and —  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  you 
couldn't  do  it — that's  why  I  said  it. 
Good-ai  ternoon . 

.  .  .  We  wouldn't  have  been  any  better 
off  if  I  had  let  you  talk,  Dicky.  Now, 
you  trust  to  me — I  know  how  to  manage. 
I  am  sorry  about  that  place,  though 
— the  lovely  entrance  and  the  palms, 
those  cunning  stone  heads  over  the  win- 
dows, and  the  elevator —  .  .  .  Well,  never 
mind;  suppose  I  did  want  to  ride  up  in 
that  elevator,  wouldn't  I  be  glad  it  was 
there?  ...  I  can't  help  it;  whenever  I  see 

40 


fIDonologues 

a  place  without  an  elevator  it  makes  me 
feel — well,  funny,  sort  of. 

This  is  the  next  place  ?  .  .  .  Red  brick — 
I  hate  red  brick,  and  that  gray-stone 
house  next  to  it  makes  it  look  cheap. 
Goodness,  what  a  stuffy  little  entrance! 
and  a  mat  with  "Welcome"  on  it.  I 
don't  think  this  is  very  pleasant,  waiting 
so  long  to  get  in.  If  we  had  to  do  this 
*  every  time —  We  will  look  at  the  apart- 
ment you  advertised  to  rent.  We  have 
really  almost  decided  on  another  place — 
they  were  very  anxious  to  have  us.  My 
hus — husband  and  I  are  quite  satisfied 
where  we  are,  in  fact,  but —  What 
floor  is  your  apartment  on  ?  .  .  .  The  sixth 
floor?  Then  of  course  you  haven't  an 
elevator?  ...  I  might  have  known  it — 
isn't  that  just  the  way?  Now,  at  that 
other  place  the  nicest  elevator,  with  one 

4i 


flDonologues 

of  those  long  seats,  with  a  lovely  red- 
plush  cushion  all  fastened  down  with 
little  red  buttons,  on  the  first  floor,  and 
here  no  elevator  and  the  flat  on  the 
roof!  Of  course  we  sha'n't  take  it,  but 
I  suppose  we  may  as  well  look  at  it.  It 
gets  me  so  out  of  breath,  Dicky,  climbing 
stairs.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  my  belt  is  not 
tight — it  isn't  the  fashion  any  more. 

Would  there  be  any  one  over  our 
heads  to  entertain? ...  I  forgot — the  top 
floor.  Well,  then,  we  could  annoy  the 
people  below  us.  How  little  the  rooms 
are!  .  .  .  Yes,  they  are  light.  .  .  .  That's 
true — it  doesn't  take  so  much  carpet  and 
things  to  furnish  these  small  rooms,  and 
it  makes  a  difference  when  one  is  buying 
everything  at  once —  Of  course,  I  mean 
— we  have  been  married  a  number  of 
years,  and  we  are  sort  of  looking  for  a  flat 

42 


flfeonolooues 

for  a  kind  of  friend  of  mine  who  is  think- 
ing of  being  married,  and — and — well,  we 
thought  we  might  furnish  it  for  her. 

The  rooms  certainly  are  very  small. 
.  .  .  Folding  things? ...  Oh  yes,  I  suppose 
so.  .  .  .  Have  they,  really?  A  folding 
dining-table,  and  it  makes  a  wardrobe 
when  it  shuts  up  ?  But  how  annoying  it 
would  be  if  you  were  giving  a  dinner  and 
it  should  start  in  to  be  a  wardrobe  and 
throw  your  gowns  all  over  your  guests! 
— and,  on  the  other  hand,  suppose  while 
it  was  a  wardrobe  it  should  start  in  to 
be  a  dining-table  and  spill  soup  all  over 
your  clothes!  I  know  all  about  those 
folding  things — they  get  so  in  the  habit 
of  folding  they  can't  stop  it.  A  friend 
of  mine  lived  in  the  country — though 
I  never  could  imagine  why  on  earth  she 
did :  they  had  plenty  of  money  and  there 

43 


fl&onologues 

was  no  earthly  reason —  Well,  anyway, 
she  got  one  of  those  ironing-board  step- 
ladder  arrangements.  When  they  got 
up  on  the  ladder  to  put  up  a  picture  or 
curtain —  Dicky,  do  you  remember  those 
pretty  curtains?  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  you  do — 
those  white  ones  with  the  dot  and  ruffles. 
...  I  can't  understand  your  forgetting 
about  those  curtains  —  they  were  so 
pretty.  I  believe  I'll  write  Margaret  and 
ask  her  where —  Oh  yes!  Well,  they 
would  just  get  up  to  fix  the  curtains, 
when  it  would  start  to  be  an  ironing- 
board  and  drop  them  right  down.  And 
sometimes  when  the  girl  was  ironing  it 
would  begin  to  be  a  ladder,  and  the  flat- 
irons  would  fly  all  over  the  place.  And 
then  they  got  afraid  of  it  and  put  it  up  in 
the  attic,  and  every  stormy  night  it  would 
have  a  sort  of  spasm  and  begin  turning 

44 


fIDonoIoaues 

itself  into  a  step-board  and  ironing-lad- 
der—  I  mean —  Well,  it  really  has 
nothing  to  do  with  this  apartment, 
anyway. 

Where  are  we  going  to  put  Jerry — 
Jerry's  the  dog;  we  can't  fold  him.  .  .  . 
Yes,  he  is  big,  but  he  can't  help  it.  .  .  . 
The  people  down-stairs  keep  their  dog 
under  the  refrigerator?  Oh  no,  we  never 
could  do  that  with  Jerry — he  wouldn't 
stand  it  a  minute. 

We  think  so  much  of  Jerry ;  he  came  to 
us  in  such  an  odd  way.  My  hus — hus- 
band— I  mean  Mr.  Phelps — was  detained 
down-town  very  late  one  night — it  was 
business — and  he  did  not  leave  his  office 
till  about  two  o'clock  at  night —  Why, 
Dicky,  why  shouldn't  I  tell?  Just  as  he 
got  to  the  elevated  station  he  met  some 
friends,  and  they  insisted  on  giving  him 

45 


Monologues 

Jerry.  It  did  seem  so  strange  to  give 
any  one  such  a  large  dog  at  that  time  of 
night — or  morning,  rather.  Well,  Jerry 
being  so  big,  he  couldn't  be  taken  on  the 
elevated,  so  Mr.  Phelps  tried  to  drag  him 
back  of  a  surface-car,  but  Jerry  wouldn't 
drag,  and  his  poor  feet  began  to  get  all 
worn  off.  Then  Mr.  Phelps  stood  on  the 
front  platform  and  tried  to  drive  Jerry — 
but  it  was  no  use,  he  wouldn't  drive.  So 
Mr.  Phelps  had  to  walk  all  the  way  up  to 
145th  Street  with  Jerry ;  and  when  he  got 
up  to  his  apartment,  and  his  mother — 
Mr.  Phelps's  mother — heard  Jerry  bark 
and  saw  how  big  he  was,  she  wouldn't  let 
him  come  in.  And  Mr.  Phelps  had  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  street  with  him  for 
the  rest  of  the  night,  and  in  the  morning 
took  him  to  a  livery  -  stable  —  it  was  a 
livery-stable,   wasn't  it,   Dicky — or  was 

46 


flDonoIoflues 

it  the  butcher?    So  you  can  see  why  we 
think  so  much  of  Jerry! 

Now,  I  like  this  apartment  for  many 
reasons.  Of  course  it  is  high  up,  and  the 
rooms  are  small,  and  there  is  no  steam, 
and  no  elevator,  but,  as  you  have  ex- 
plained, all  these  things  have  their  ad- 
vantages. What  is  the  rent?  ...  Is  that 
all?  My!  I  wouldn't  live  in  a  place 
that  didn't  charge  more  than  that.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  know,  but  the  price  —  goodness! 
it's  dreadful.  .  .  .  You  think  they  could 
make  it  a  little  more?  .  .  .No;  even  so, 
we  couldn't  decide  at  once — I  would  want 
a  day  or  so  to  think  it  over.  ...  I  sha'ri't 
see  Mr.  Phelps  to-night,  or  to-morrow 
night  either.  I — I — we — we —  I  don't 
see  him  every  night —  I  may  as  well 
own  up,  we  are  just  pretending  to  be 
married.     Will  you  inquire  if  they  could 

47 


ADonoloQues 

raise  the  rent?  Thanks.  Cheap,  Dicky 
— that's  just  it.  Don't  use  the  word.  I 
hate  it.  .  .  .  Of  course,  dear,  I  know  we're 
going  to  be  poor.  I  like  it — I'm  glad 
of  it — but  if  we  do  have  to  live  in  such  a 
horrid  little — I  mean  cosey  little  place,  I 
should  feel  better  if  we  paid  a  little  more 
rent.  ...  I'm  not  surprised  that  you  don't 
understand — men  never  do.  .  .  .  Hush! 
here  he  comes — you  wait  for  me  on  the 
floor  below — I'll  bargain  with  him  and 
make  him  come  up  in  his  price.  Run 
along — there's  a  dear. 

.  .  .  What  did  you  say?  The  apart- 
ment is  already  rented?  Then  what  do 
you  mean  by  showing  it  to  us? .  . .  None  but 
married — respect — I  don't  know  what 
you  mean,  but  you  are  a  perfectly 
dreadful  man — Jerry,  quick,  come! 

Oh,  here  you  are,  Dicky.     I  decided  it 

48 


flDonologuea 

wouldn't  do  at  all — I  would  rather  die 
than  live  in  this  house  now.  .  .  .  No,  I've 
just  changed  my  mind,  that's  all.  Let's 
hurry  out  of  here. 

So  this  is  number  three.  ...  I  don't  like 
that  doctor's  sign  on  the  first  floor.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  though  the  place  wasn't 
healthy.  Then,  again,  it  would  be  handy 
in  case  Jerry  was  sick.  I  just  hate  these 
feet-scraping  arrangements  at  the  door — 
they  are  so  old-fashioned.  I  suppose  we 
may  as  well  go  in,  but  I  know  I  sha'n't 
like  it.  Goodness!  palms  again  —  I'm 
tired  to  death  of  them. 

Have  you  an  apartment  to  rent?  .  .  . 
You  have?  .  .  .  Are  you  perfectly  sure  it 
is  not  already  rented  ?  .  .  .  We  will  look  at 
it.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  a  nice  entrance,  but  you 
can't  live  in  an  entrance.  .  .  .  You  have  an 
elevator?  ...  I'm  beginning  to  think  they 
4  49 


ADonoIoguea 

are  not  sanitary — they  collect  dirt.  What 
floor  is  the  apartment?  .  .  .  The  second? 
Then  it  really  is  no  advantage  having  an 
elevator,  anyway — only  one  flight.  .  .  . 
Do  you  object  to  Jerry  ?  Jerry's  the  dog. 
.  .  .  You  have  a  playground  for  dogs  and 
a  man  to  shampoo  them?  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  I 
suppose  it  is  nice,  but  it's  a  peculiar  ar- 
rangement. What  a  wide  hall!  .  .  .  All 
the  rooms  light  and  good  size?  That 
does  seem  strange.  .  .  .  What  about  the 
people  overhead ;  do  they  entertain  ?  .  .  . 
Wha  —  what  —  just  an  old  man  with 
paralysis?  I  never  heard  of  an  old  man 
having  paralysis  alone  in  an  apartment. 
.  .  .  Why,  no,  I  suppose  there  is  no  reason 
why  he  shouldn't,  but —  Is  he  very  quiet 
about  it? — does  he  pound  on  the  floor, 
or  sing,  "There  will  be  a  hot  old  time"? 
.  .  .  Electric  lights,  and  you  don't  have 

5o 


ADonoIogues 

to  pay  for  them?  Well,  Dicky,  I  don't 
see  but  we  will  have  to  take  this  place — 
I  can't  find  any  objection  to  it.  What  is 
the  rent?  ...  I  should  think  that  was 
reasonable. 

I  may  as  well  explain  at  once  —  we 
had  so  much  trouble  at  the  other  places 
— that  we  are  not  even  pretending  we  are 
married.  But  we  are  going —  .  .  .  You 
are  not  sure  about  the  rent?  Well,  go 
and  see,  please. 

It  does  seem  too  good  to  be  true,  for 
I'm  so  tired  out  I  can't  look  at  an- 
other place.  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't  help  it. 
I'm  just  worn  out  and —  Here  he 
comes.  .  .  . 

Well  ?  .  .  .  What !  The  apartment  is 
rented  ?  I  thought  it  was  when  I  came 
in!  I  shouldn't  take  it  anyway,  under 
any  circumstances.     I  don't  like  the  idea 

5i 


flfconologues 

about  the  dog's  playground.     Good-after- 
noon. 

...  I  don't  care;  it  wasn't  my  fault; 
and  it  wouldn't  have  been  any  different 
if  you  had  done  the  talking.  I'm  all 
tired  out — and  I  didn't  know  it  was  such 
an  awful  trouble  and  fuss  to  get  married 
— and  I  just  hate  you — so! — and  I'm  just 
going  home  to  my  mother  and  stay  there. 
So!    Come,  Jerry! 


J,        J»        d* 

Zhe  Ibeart  of  a  Woman 


Zbc  Ibeart  of  a  Woman 

ain't  much  of  a  story, 
'bout  Jim  an'  me,  but  if 
you  want  to  hear  it  I'd 
just  as  soon  tell  you,  sir. 
I  think  I'd  like  to,  for  it's 
been  buried  in  my  heart,  away  from  all 
human  bein's,  for  so  long. 

Sometimes,  when  I  can't  seem  to 
bear  it  no  longer,  I  go  down  to  the  sea 
at  the  bottom  of  these  cliffs,  an'  I  whis- 
per it  all  out  to  the  waves,  an'  they 
seem  to  listen  an'  understand,  an'  sort 
o'  comfort  me. 

Lonesome  here,  sir?  Oh  no!  I'm 
used  to  it,    one   thing,    I   s'pose.     I've 

55 


flDonologues 

lived  here  so  long  alone  everythin'  seems 
to  talk  to  me. 

An'  on  some  o'  these  gran'  moon- 
light nights  I  go  out — way  out  on  the 
farthest -juttin'  cliff — an'  sit  there  an' 
just  look  an'  look  out  over  that  water, 
till  somethin'  inside  o'  me  seems  to  give 
'way  an'  I  can't  help  a-cryin'.  An'  just 
small  an'  faint  like  I  can  hear  the  fiddles 
'way  down  in  the  village  where  they  are 
dancin'. 

But  I'd  rather  stay  up  here  alone, 
where  every  blade  o'  grass  an'  every 
leaf  'pears  to  know  me.  'Tain't  always 
talkin'  that  makes  you  most  understood. 
Yes,  sir,  I've  lived  up  here  ten  years  all 
alone;  ever  sence — well,  sir,  I'll  begin 
at  the  beginnin' — 'tain't  very  long. 

I  was  born  down  in  that  village,  sir. 
If  you  step  this  way,  I  can  show  you 

56 


flDonologuee 

the  very  house.  There;  do  you  see  that 
little  tumble-down  cabin  in  the  lane  off 
the  street?  Yes;  that  was  where  I  was 
born,  sir.  No;  there  ain't  nobody  lived 
there  in  many  a  year — not  sence  my 
folks  died,  an'  that  was  'way  long  ago. 
I  tried  to  live  there  after — after — it  all. 
But  I  couldn't  stan'  it. 

Every  night  I  could  see  father  an' 
mother  a-settin'  either  side  o'  that  fire- 
place, a-lookin'  at  me  so  reproachful 
like.  I  couldn't  stan'  it,  so  I  come  up 
here. 

Well,  Jim  an'  his  folks  lived  back  o' 
the  village,  up  on  that  hill.  No,  sir, 
you  can't  see  the  Hall  from  here  now; 
the  trees  hide  it  in  summer.  They  come 
down  from  London;  Jim  was  a  weakly 
little  feller  then,  an'  the  doctor  said  he 
needed  the  sea  air. 

57 


fIDonoIogues 

I'll  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw 
Jim,  though  I  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  little 
mite  of  a  thing. 

One  summer  day  I  was  sent  on  an 
errand  to  a  house  just  beyond  where 
Jim  lived,  an'  as  I  passed  the  big  gate 
openin'  into  the  driveway  I  heard  some 
music.  It  was  beautiful  music,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  acorjeons  an'  jews-harps 
that  was  all  I'd  ever  listened  to.  I  was 
one  o'  those  scary  kids,  but  I  got  so 
kind  o'  bewitched  by  that  music  that  I 
went  up  to  the  gate  an'  pushed  away 
the  vines  coverin'  it,  an'  looked  in. 

It  was  a  party  goin'  on — Jim's  ten- 
year-old  birthday  party,  as  it  turned 
out  to  be — an'  they  was  a-havin'  it  out 
on  the  lawn.  I  got  so  interested  watchin' 
that  I  pushed  the  vines  farther  away, 
forgettin'  they  might  see  me. 

58 


flDonologues 

Just  as  they  was  sittin'  down  to  a 
great  big  table  underneath  a  tree,  Jim 
he  saw  me.  He  said  somethin'  to  a 
lady  standin'  by  him,  but  she  shook  her 
head  an'  tried  to  make  him  sit  down. 
But  Jim  stamped  his  foot  an'  said  he 
would,  an'  then  they  all  laughed,  an'  he 
come  runnin'  down  to  the  gate  to  me. 

I  don't  know  how  it  come  about,  for 
I  was  always  so  frightened  o'  strangers, 
but  just  as  soon  as  Jim  took  my  hand 
an'  drew  me  in,  I  wasn't  a  mite  afraid 
o'  any  o'  those  big  folks. 

What  a  fine  time  I  had!  I  forgot  all 
about  the  errand,  an'  didn't  get  home 
till  dark,  an*  then  got  a  whippin'  for 
stayin'  out  so  late.  But  I  didn't  care. 
It  was  worth  it. 

Well,  Jim  an'  me  sort  o'  grew  up  to- 
gether after  that.     He  got  strong  an' 

59 


fIDonologues 

hearty  with  our  racin'  an'  tearin'  over 
the  cliffs,  I  think. 

As  we  got  older,  I  found  that  I  was 
the  stronger  nater  of  us  two,  an'  yet  it 
was  always  Jim  that  went  first,  an'  I 
followed  like  a  dog. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  tide  was 
runnin'  out  to  sea,  I  was  down  on  the 
rocks,  a-gatherin'  mussels  in  the  pools 
left  by  the  ebb.  I'd  most  filled  my 
basket,  an'  was  watchin'  a  fleet  o'  fish- 
in' -boats  as  they  rocked  up  an'  down 
in  the  swell  o'  the  waves.  Pretty  soon 
I  heard  Jim  a-hallooin'  to  me,  as  he 
came  jumpin'  over  them  puddle-holes. 

He  was  plum  out  o'  breath  when  he 
got  to  me,  but  his  face  was  a-shinin' 
with  gladness.  He  said  he  was  a-goin' 
away  to  London  to  get  prepared  for 
college,  an'  wasn't  it  the  grandest  thing? 

60 


fIDonologues 

When  he  told  me  my  heart  seemed  to 
stan'  still  for  a  minute;  an'  then  I  felt 
as  though  I  was  freezin'  up  all  over.  I 
didn't  say  nothin',  but  turned  away,  look- 
in'  out  to  sea  again,  but  the  boats  was  all 
a  blur,  an'  I  couldn't  see  nothin'  distinct. 

Jim,  he  expected  me  to  say  somethin', 
I  guess,  for  he  waited  a  minute,  an' 
then  said  if  that  was  all  I  minded  about 
his  good  luck,  very  well,  an'  he  didn't 
care  if  he  never  saw  me  again — he  always 
thought  I  was  a  selfish  girl,  an'  now  he 
knew  it. 

I  couldn't  have  moved  or  spoke  if  I 
was  to  have  died  for  it. 

An'  then  I  heard  his  steps  as  he  jumped 
from  rock  to  rock,  back  to  the  beach. 

I  never  could  bear  the  sight  o'  that 
fleet  o'  fishin'  -boats  sence. 

Some  one  told  me  that  he  went  away 

61 


flDonologuee 

next  day,  an'  I  didn't  see  him  for  three 
years. 

You'll  not  mind  my  savin*  so,  sir, 
but  in  that  time  I  had  grown  to  be,  as 
every  one  'round  here  said,  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  village.  I  had  beaux  enough, 
but  somehow  I  couldn't  care  for  any 
o'  them — I'd  rather  be  by  myself  an' 
think  o'  Jim  than  have  the  whole  pack 
runnin'  after  me. 

Well,  one  winter's  night,  when  I  was 
comin'  home  from  the  rectory,  an'  had 
just  reached  the  foot  o'  that  cliff,  I  heard 
some  one  call  my  name,  "  Aileen,  Aileen!" 
I  didn't  know  the  voice  at  first,  an'  then 
it  come  again,  louder. 

I  turned — an'  oh,  it  was  Jim.  I  don't 
know  how  it  happened,  sir,  but  first 
thing  I  knew  I  was  laughin'  an'  cryin' 
in  Jim's  arms. 

62 


ADonolOQues 

After  a  while  he  held  me  off,  a-look- 
in'  at  me  from  head  to  foot.  An'  then 
he  said  he'd  never  any  idea  I  would  o' 
grown  up  to  be  such  a  beauty,  an'  there 
wasn't  one  o'  the  fine  ladies  up  to  London 
that  could  hold  a  candle  to  me. 

Oh,  how  happy  that  made  me!— an' 
when  he  kissed  me  good-night,  he  told 
me  he  loved  me! 

He  stayed  with  his  folks  for  a  week, 
that  time,  an'  I  saw  him  every  day. 
When  he  was  a-tellin'  me  good-bye  he 
said  he  was  goin'  to  write  me  an'  I 
must  answer  him.  I  could  write  a  little, 
in  a  way. 

He  was  a-searchin'  in  his  pocket  for 
somethin'  to  put  the  address  on,  an' 
pulled  out  some  letters.  From  among 
'em  slipped  a  picter,  an'  it  fell  to  the 
ground,  face  upward.    I  had  it  in  a  second. 

63 


ADonoIogues 

It  was  a  girl;  so  good  an'  pretty 
lookin'.     How  I  hated  her  for  that! 

After  I'd  looked  at  it  for  a  while,  I 
asked  Jim,  very  quiet  like,  who  she 
was.  He  had  turned  white  as  the  snow 
clingin'  to  the  branches  overhead,  an' 
his  voice  was  unsteady,  as  he  told  me 
it  was  just  a  young  lady  friend  of  his  up 
to  London.  I  said  he  didn't  need  no 
friend  but  me — an'  then  I  tore  the  whole 
picter  into  bits  an'  threw  'em  on  the 
ground  an'  crushed  'em  with  my  foot. 

At  that  Jim  turned  on  me  like  a  wild 
thing,  an'  gripped  me  on  the  arm  until 
I  could  a-screamed  with  the  hurt.  At 
first  I  thought  he  was  goin'  to  push  me 
off  the  cliff,  an'  I  didn't  much  care. 
But  he  didn't;  he  just  hissed  at  me, 
"You  devil!"  an'  then  walked  off  an' 
left  me. 

64 


fllionologues 

I  waited  'til  'most  dark,  hopin'  he'd 
come  back,  but  he  didn't. 

A  few  days  after  that  I  got  a  letter 
from  him  pos'marked  "London"  —  an' 
he  said  he  was  sorry  he  had  offended 
me,  an'  would  I  forgive  him,  an'  he  didn't 
care  for  no  one  but  me.  But  there 
wasn't  nothin'  to  forgive,  I  wrote  him, 
for  it  was  all  that  ugly  temper  of  mine. 

He  said  he  was  comin'  again  in  the 
spring,  an'  for  me  to  be  true  to  him, 
for  then  he  had  somethin'  to  ask  me. 

I  was  just  a-singin'  in  my  heart  all 
that  winter  an'  into  the  spring,  a-waitin' 
an'  a-waitin'  for  him  to  come  back  to  me. 
Early  in  May  I  got  another  letter  from 
him,  say  in'  he  was  comin'  home  an'  to 
meet  him  on  the  twentieth,  at  five  in  the 
afternoon,  at  our  old-time  meetin'-place 
on  the  cliff. 

*  65 


flfeonoloQues 

Well,  on  the  nineteenth,  I  was  walk- 
in'  up  from  the  village,  when  I  saw  Jim 
an'  that  picter  girl  a-drivin'  from  the 
station  in  the  Hall  dog-cart.  I  got  down 
back  of  a  hedge  till  they  passed,  so  they 
didn't  see  me.  They  was  talkin'  away, 
an'  they  both  laughed  an'  laughed,  an'  I 
knew  it  was  about  me. 

I  was  so  crazy  with  madness  an'  grief 
I  wanted  to  kill  'em  both,  an'  if  I'd  had 
the  chance  I  would. 

I  lay  awake  all  that  night,  a-thinkin' 
it  over  an'  tryin'  to  make  up  my  mind 
whether  I'd  go  an'  meet  him  next  day 
or  not.  At  last  I  decided  I'd  go,  if  only 
to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  about  that 
girl — an'  I  did  want  to  see  him  so! 

Well,  Jim  was  there  first  an'  came 
towards  me  with  his  arms  out,  a-callin' 
me.     I  never  heard  any  one  say ' '  Aileen 

66 


ilDonoloQues 

so  it  sounded  so  like  music,  as  Jim. 
An'  when  he  came  to  me  that  way,  a- 
speakin'  my  name,  it  just  seemed  as 
though  I'd  rather  drop  dead  than  not  to 
go  to  him. 

But  there  was  some  thin'  here  in  my 
heart  that  wouldn't  let  me  till  I'd  heard 
what  he  had  to  say  about  that  girl.  I 
told  him  I'd  seen  him  an'  her,  an'  asked 
him  what  it  all  meant. 

He  wanted  to  know  if  that  was  all 
a-troublin'  me,  an'  laughed.  He  passed 
it  over  so  easy  like,  say  in'  she  was  down 
on  a  little  visit  to  his  mother  —  her 
mother  an'  his  bein'  such  great  friends. 
It  sounded  so  right  that  I  made  up  my 
mind  it  was  true — or  he  had  learned  to 
lie  mighty  well. 

But  o'  course  I  believed  him,  an'  I 
think  to  this  day  he  was  tellin'  me  the 

67 


fIDonoioguea 

truth.  For  then  he  asked  me  would  I 
be  his  wife — Jim's  wife! 

The  rest  o'  the  time  he  was  home  it 
seemed  as  though  I  was  walkin'  on  air, 
I  was  so  happy.  To  think  o'  bein' 
Jim's  wife. 

He  stayed  a  month  this  time,  an'  the 
girl  stayed,  too — but  I  didn't  care  about 
her  any  more.     I  knew  Jim  loved  me. 

We  was  to  keep  our  secret,  he  said, 
till  he  come  back  at  Christmas,  an'  then 
it  wasn't  to  be  good-bye  any  more. 

The  weeks  an'  months  didn't  seem  so 
very  long  after  Jim  went,  for  I  was 
lookin'  forward  so  to  Christmas.  Jim 
didn't  write  very  often.  He  was  so 
busy,  he  said;  but  the  same  letters  did 
just  as  well,  for  I  read  them  all  over 
an'  over  every  day. 

I'd  hardly  ever  been  up  to  Jim's  folks, 

63 


fl&onolosues 

sence  I  was  a  little  girl.  They  was  nice 
to  me,  but  in  a  kind  of  a  way  that  I 
couldn't  tell  you,  sir;  but  it  made  me 
mad  clear  through.  A  couple  o'  weeks 
before  Christmas  it  began  to  be  talked 
around  the  village  that  there  was  to  be 
a  big  ball  affair  on  Christmas  night  at 
the  Hall.  They  had  never  given  big 
parties  before,  an'  every  one  was  won- 
derin'  what  it  was  about. 

Well,  I  hadn't  heard  from  Jim  in 
ever  so  long,  but  he  had  told  me  he'd 
be  home  Christmas,  so  I  just  waited  for 
that.  All  Christmas  week  passed,  an' 
I  didn't  see  him  nor  hear  nothin'  about 
him,  an'  I  was  too  proud  to  ask. 

I  woke  up  on  Christmas  mornin'  with 
a  queer  feelin'.  I  don't  believe  much 
in  presenterments,  but  on  that  day  I 
knew,  somehow,  somethin'  was  goin'  to 

69 


flDonologues 

happen.  I  stayed  in  all  day,  for  I  was 
in  no  mood  for  all  the  happiness  an' 
laughin'  goin'  on  outside. 

It  snowed  'till  'most  dark,  an'  at 
night  I  pretended  to  go  to  bed  early. 
But  when  all  was  still  an'  the  lights 
down,  I  dressed  myself  an'  slipped  out. 

Just  as  I  was  leavin'  the  house,  some- 
thin'  said  to  me, "  Go  back  to  your  room." 
I  crept  up  there  again,  an'  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door  the  moon  shined  right  in 
at  the  window  onto  a  dagger  that  lay  a- 
gleamin'  on  the  table.  This  knife  was 
sent  to  me  that  day,  for  a  Christmas 
gift,  by  one  of  my  old  beaux,  who'd  just 
come  back  from  India. 

I  knew  right  off  that  knife  was  what 
I  came  for,  so  I  put  it  in  the  bosom  of 
my  dress  an'  crept  out  again. 

So   long   as    I    live    I'll    never   forget 

70 


fIDonologues 

what  a  gran'  night  that  was.  The  snow 
had  stopped  after  sundown,  an'  now 
everythin'  was  a-glistenin'  an'  a-sparklin' 
in  the  moonlight.  It  was  so  still  that 
down  on  the  beach  you  could  hear  the 
hush-hush  of  the  waves  as  they  ran  up 
on  the  pebbles. 

It  was  all  dark  in  the  village,  but 
'way  up  on  the  hill -side  the  Hall  was 
ablaze  from  every  window.  An'  I  could 
hear  the  music,  such  lovely  music — like 
I  heard  the  first  time  I  met  Jim.  I 
thought  o'  that  time,  so  long  ago,  an'  I 
couldn't  help  a-cryin'  some. 

I  wasn't  just  clear  where  I  wanted  to 
go,  or  what  I  wanted  to  do,  but  the  cold 
chill  o'  that  bit  o'  steel  lyin'  in  my  breast 
seemed  to  urge  me  to  "go  on."  I  kept 
a-walkin',  an'  'fore  long  I  found  myself 
slippin'  through  the  side  gateway  to  the 

7i 


flDonologues 

Hall.     No  one  saw  me,  an'  it  was  all  quiet 
outside. 

I  felt  for  the  knife.  It  was  safe.  I 
stumbled  through  the  snowdrifts  up  to 
my  waist,  but  somehow  I  didn't  seem 
to  feel  it  nor  mind  it.  I  fell  twice,  but 
I  held  on  to  the  dagger,  so  I  didn't  care. 

The  dra win'  -room  windows  was  nearly 
on  a  level  with  the  ground,  an'  as  the  cur- 
tains weren't  pulled  close,  I  could  look  in. 

There  —  there  was  Jim  dancin'  with 
that  picter  girl! 

I  grew  blind  an'  dizzy  with  rage.  I 
wouldn't  be  fooled  this  time.  I  watched 
'em  till  I  saw  'em  go  ofT  together  into 
the  conservatory.  There  was  a  glass 
door  leadin'  into  it  from  the  grounds, 
an'  I  crawled  'round  an'  looked  in. 
They  was  all  alone  an'  seemed  to  be 
talkin'  very  earnest. 

72 


flfoonoloQues 

Then  —  then  Jim  he  leaned  over  an' 
kissed  her! 

I  couldn't  stan'  that.  I  drew  out  the 
dagger  an'  jerked  open  the  door.  The 
music  crashed  out  then,  so  they  didn't 
hear  me. 

I  rushed  up  to  the  girl  an'  was  just 
a-goin'  to  strike  her,  when  Jim  turned 
•an'  saw  me.  Quick  as  lightnin'  he  put 
himself  before  her,  an'  the  blow  fell  on 
his  arm.  The  girl  screamed  an'  clung 
onto  Jim,  sobbin'.  The  knife  had  fell 
to  the  floor,  an'  before  I  could  grab  it 
Jim  had  kicked  it  away  into  a  foun- 
tain. 

By  this  time  people  was  rushin'  in 
from  every  direction. 

An'  do  you  know  what  was  in  my 
mind  then,  above  everythin'  else?  It 
was  how  poor  an'  mean  I  looked  beside 

73 


flfconolOQues 

her  in  that  floaty,  cloudy  white  dress, 
a-showin'  her  pretty  neck  an'  arms. 

How  I  hated  her! 

But  right  then  an'  there  all  the  anger 
in  my  heart  against  Jim  died  out.  I 
didn't  blame  him  —  't wasn't  his  fault. 
She  was  prettier  than  I  would  have  been 
—  even  in  those  same  clothes.  There 
was  a  somethin'  about  her  more  than 
the  things  she  had  on. 

Well,  they  was  all  a-speakin'  out  an' 
askin'  questions.  The  girl  she  sprang 
up  then  an'  pointed  to  me  an'  started 
to  say  somethin',  but  I  said:  'Stop! 
I'm  the  one  to  speak  now.  Jim  here 
has  promised  to  marry  me,  an'  I  want 
to  know  if  he's  a-goin'  to  keep  his  word 
or  not!  Did  you  promise  me,  Jim,  or 
didn't  you?     Answer!" 

Jim  stood  back  among  some  o'  them 

74 


fIDonoIogues 

palm  things  with  his  wounded  arm  be- 
hind him,  an'  so  no  one  but  me  saw 
the  blood  slowly  tricklin'  to  the  floor. 
He  lifted  up  his  head  an'  he  was  pale  as 
death.  Yes,  he  said,  he  had  promised, 
an'  he  would  stand  by  his  word. 

At  this  they  all  shuddered  an'  whis- 
pered an'  shrugged  their  shoulders,  an' 
the  women  looked  at  me  through  eye- 
glasses with  long  handles.  I  heard  one 
man  near  me  laugh  and  say  I  was  damned 
handsome,  anyhow,  an'  he  didn't  think 
he  blamed  Jim  after  all — though  he  was 
a  fool  to  let  things  go  so  far  as  to  promise 
to  marry  me.     The  brute! 

The  girl  had  fell  into  a  chair  by  Jim 
an'  was  cry  in'  an'  sobbin',  an'  Jim  was 
pettin'  her  on  the  shoulder  with  his 
well  hand  an'  tryin'  to  comfort  her. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  o'  that,  I  don't 

75 


fIDonologues 

know,  but  it  came  sudden  like  to  me 
that  he  never  had  an'  never  would  love 
me  in  the  way  he  loved  her. 

I  don't  know,  neither,  what  made  me 
do  it,  but  I  turned  again  to  all  that 
sneerin'  lot  o'  men  an'  women,  an'  said: 
"  I  didn't  come  here  to  make  no  trouble. 
I  come  to  tell  Jim  that — that — I  don't — 
love  him — no  more,  an'  if  he  wants  to 
have  that  girl  over  there  he  can  have 
her  for  all  o'  me." 

An'  Jim  looked  up  at  me  with  such  a 
joy  in  his  face  as  I  never  saw  on  any 
human  bein'  before. 

That  was  the  worst  hurt  I  ever  had. 

Then  the  girl  come  runnin'  up  to  me 
— I  believe  she  was  goin'  to  put  her 
arms  'round  me,  but  I  pushed  her  off 
an'  run  out  into  the  night. 

I   don't  know  how  I   ever  got  home, 

76 


Monologues 

for  it  was  snowin'  so  hard  again  I  couldn't 
see  a  foot  in  front  of  me. 

Of  course,  the  story  got  all  over  the 
village,  an'  I  think  the  disgrace  of  it 
killed  my  father  an'  mother.  Jim,  he 
married  the  girl  a  while  after,  an'  now 
they  live  up  to  London  in  gran'  style. 

Strange  that  I  should  have  stayed 
here?  Oh  no,  sir.  It  is  right  over  there 
on  that  farthest  -  jut  tin'  cliff  that  Jim 
an'  me  used  to  meet  each  other.  No 
other  place  would  seem  like  home  but 
this."  Such  a  sacrifice?  No,  sir;  I  only 
loved  Jim  more  than  I  did  myself,  that's 
all.     He  was  too  good  for  a  girl  like  me. 


a  Bill  from  tbe  flbilliner 

g^W  t£T>  && 


a  Bill  from  tbe  flDUUner 

She  enters  cautiously. 

JATIE  —  Katie ;  has  she 
gone?  What  did  she  say? 
Tell  me  every  word.  .  .  . 
Oh,  oh,  oh!  Katie,  you 
oughtn't  to  have  told  me 
that —  .  .  .  Well,  I  know  I  told  you  to 
tell  me,  but —  Never  mind ;  it's  all  right. 
What  else  did  she  say? .  .  .  Oh,  the  wretch ! 
That  she  would  send  and  take  the  hat 
back  if  she  wasn't  paid  by  to-morrow 
morning  ?  So  vulgar  of  her — bringing  the 
bill  herself.  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  .  .  .  And  she  said  I  was  no  lady? 
6  81 


fIDonologues 

She's  a  beast!  To  think  I've  been  buy- 
ing my  hats  all  this  time  from  such  a  low 
woman. 

Katie — you're  sure  Mr.  Carson  didn't 
hear  a  word  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Katie,  what  do  you 
think  she  can  do  to  me?  Do  you  think 
she  could  put  me  in  prison,  just  for  a 
few  hats?  .  .  .  No,  Katie,  you're  a  good 
girl,  but  you  can't  help  me.  Only,  don't 
you  ever  let  that  dreadful  woman  in  again. 
That's  all,  Katie. 

I — I — almost  thought  I'd  paid  that 
other  bill.  I  —  I  —  I'm  pretty  sure  I 
thought  I  had  when  I  bought  this  other 
hat.  Well,  why  shouldn't  she  let  me 
have  it — she's  got  a  whole  store  full  of 
hats!  If  I  had  the  money  I'd  give  it  to 
her.  Now,  she  has  the  hats  —  why 
shouldn't  she  let  me  have  one? 

The  world  is  full  of  horrid  people  who 

82 


fIDonolOQues 

are  always  wanting  money,  money,  mon- 
ey. Perhaps  I'd  better  just  look  over 
those  perfectly  awful  accounts  again 
and  see  if  I  can  make  them  come  out 
different.  Different!  That's  just  the 
trouble.  I  get  a  different  answer  every 
single  time  I  go  over  them.  And  this  last 
time  I  found  I  had  $87  left  by  the  ac- 
counts, but  I  hadn't  a  cent  in  my  pocket- 
book.  And  last  week  the  accounts  said 
I  oughtn't  to  have  had  any  money  left — 
and  I  did.  I  had  $10!  Oh,  I  wonder 
where  it  is.  Oh,  I  guess  I've  spent  it. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  paid  the  grocer.  He's 
such  a  nice  man  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't 
have  minded  waiting  if  I'd  told  him  about 
the  hats.  [Picks  up  pencil  and  paper.] 
Now — there's  $100.  One,  three  naughts 
and  then  a  period  and  two  more  naughts 
for  where   there   isn't   any  cents.     Oh, 

83 


flfeonologues 

I've  made  a  joke.  "Took  out  $10," 
making  $110.  M-m-m-m-m — oh,  I  ought 
to  have  extracted  it,  and  I've  added 
it  on.  Oh,  bother!  Well,  $110 —  take 
away  from  that  $10,  makes  it  $100. 
Now :  ' '  Grocer,  $14.83' ' — one -four-peri- 
od-eight-three. "Manicure,  50  cents" — 
five-o-period.  "Hair-dresser,  75  cents" 
— "  Incidentals,  $83.92."  Well,  I  got  rid 
of  that  hundred  easily. 

Now,  for  the  other  hundred.  "  S.  S.  V., 
$6.87."  What  on  earth  could  that  be? 
"  S.  S.  V.  ?"  Oh,  flowers  for  Julia  Marsh's 
funeral.  But  what  a  funny  price  for 
flowers  —  six  dollars  and  eighty-seven 
cents.  Oh  no — it  wasn't  that.  It  was 
dripping-pans  for  the  refrigerator!  I  re- 
member now.  I  saw  the  sale  advertised, 
and  they  were  so  cheap  I  bought  four — 
and  then  they  wouldn't  deliver  them  be- 

84 


fIDonologues 

cause  they  were  such  a  bargain,  and  I 
had  to  get  a  cab  to  take  them  home. 
So,  altogether,  they  cost  me  six  dollars 
and  eighty-seven  cents.  That's  just  it 
— every  time  I  try  to  economize  it's  so 
expensive ! 

"  X.  Y.  Z.,  $8.50."  Well,  I  haven't  the 
remotest  idea.  I  always  think  at  the 
time  if  I  put  down  some  strange  initials  I 
will  know  what  it  was  so  much  better 
than  if  I  put  down  the  right  ones.  Oh 
ye —  No.  Oh  ye —  No.  Oh  ye — 
No.  Oh  yes;  it  was  that  little  flannel 
shirt-waist ! 

"T.,  49c."  That  was  the  unlaundered 
dress-shirt  I  got  Tom,  and  then  he  didn't 
like  it — said  it  wasn't  good  enough.  I 
don't  care,  I  think  forty -nine  cents  is 
quite  enough  for  any  old  calico  shirt. 
Men  spend  too  much  on  their  clothes, 

85 


fIDonoIogues 

anyhow.  And  I  notice  they  are  anxious 
enough  to  have  you  economize,  but  they 
never  like  you  to  begin  on  them. 

11 T.,  75c."  Well,  I  won't  forget  about 
that  in  a  hurry.  That  was  for  six  lovely 
little  white  satin  bow  ties,  all  made  up, 
with  a  little  elastic  and  thing  to  fasten 
them  with  in  the  back.  Tom  always  has 
such  a  dreadful  time  tying  his  dress  ties, 
and  I  thought  he'd  be  so  pleased,  but  he 
wasn't,  a  bit !  And  I  found  out  he  gave 
them  to  Katie  to  give  to  her  cousin — at 
least,  she  says  he's  her  cousin! 

"  Liver-shaped  writing-table,  $&$."  Oh 
no ;  kidney-shaped  table.  There ! — Why, 
I've  got  nine-fifty  down  here  four  times! 
Funny  I  should  have  bought  four  things 
for  nine-fifty.  I  wonder  what  it's  for. 
Oh  yes;  it  was  that  little  spangled  fan. 
And    then    when    I    spent    money    and 

86 


flfronolOQues 

couldn't  remember  what  for,  why,  I  just 
put  "  nine-fifty  "  down  again.  Of  course. 
I  wonder  if  I  have  all  those  little  peri- 
ods in  the  right  place.  Well,  I  guess  it 
doesn't  matter.  Now  I  must  add  it  up. 
Oh,  dear,  what  a  lot  of  sevens.  I  never 
could  add  sevens.  Six  and  seven — six  and 
seven —  If  it  was  six  and  six  it  would  be 
twelve,  and  one  more  makes  it  thirteen. 
Thirteen  and  five,  nineteen;  and  seven 
[counts  on  fingers],  twenty-six ;  twenty-six 
and  eight,  forty-three —  [Adds  silently.] 
Well,  there's  the  top ;  I  guess  it's  seventy- 
nine.  Oh,  dear,  last  time  I  made  it  ninety- 
seven,  and  now  it's  only  seventy-nine. 
[Adds  silently.]  Now;  four -eight -eight- 
five -seven-nine.  Sounds  like  a  telephone 
call!  It  doesn't  look  right.  I  don't 
know  where  the  little  period  ought  to  go. 
Oh,  I  guess  about  two  or  three  from  the 

87 


flDonologues 

end.  Good  Heavens!  Four  thousand, 
eight  hundred  and  eighty-five  dollars  and 
seventy -nine  cents!  Oh  no,  no;  some- 
thing must  be  the  matter.  Well,  I'm  not 
going  to  bother  any  more.  What's  the 
use?  Here's  this  perfectly  awful  bill 
from  the  milliner,  and  I've  spent  all  my 
allowance  and  all  the  house  money — 
and  I'll  have  to  tell  Tom,  and  what 
will  he  say  !  Well,  here  goes — I'll  do 
my  best. 

Tom  —  T-o-o-o-m,  dear;  aren't  you 
ever  coming  ?  Why,  Tom,  I ' ve  been  wait- 
ing and  waiting  and  wondering  why  on 
earth  you  didn't  come  in  here.  I  thought 
maybe  you  didn't  love  me  any  more.  .  .  . 
There,  now,  you  sit  right  here  in  this 
lovely  comfy  chair.  There,  are  you  quite 
comfortable? .  .  .  Sure?  .  .  .  Wouldn't  you 

88 


fIDonologues 

like  a  cushion  for  your  head  ?  .  .  .  No  ?  .  .  . 
Well,  I  know  you  want  a  footstool — isn't 
that  better?  ...  I  thought  so.  Maybe 
you'd  rather  stretch  yourself  out  on  the 
divan? .  .  .  A-l-1  r-i-g-h-t — it  doesn't  make 
any  difference  to  me,  as  long  as  you  are 
comfortable.  You  poor  darling;  how 
tired  you  must  get,  working  so  hard  down 
in  that  nasty  old  office  all  day,  to  buy 
pretty  things  for  your  extravagant  little 
wife — but  you  don't  think  I'm  really  ex- 
travagant, do  you,  dear?  At  least,  not 
often?  .  .  .  You  old  darling — You're  pos- 
itive you're  comfortable?  .  .  .  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  smoke  your  pipe?  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
know  I've  never  let  you  smoke  in  here 
before,  but  I'm  going  to  to-night — you — 
you — look  so  tired.  .  .  .  Now,  don't  you 
move ;  I'm  going  to  get  it  for  you.  Don't 
you  get  up;  I'll  get  the  match —     Now 

89 


flDonologues 

stop — I'm  going  to  light  the  match. 
[Hops  about,  endeavoring  to  strike  match 
on  slipper. .]  No,  I  want  to  light  it — you 
leave  me  alone  and  I'll  strike  it  all  right. 
Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross — I  didn't 
mean  to  be  cross.  .  .  .  Why,  Tom,  I'm  just 
as  nice  every  night,  you  precious  old 
silly —     The  idea! 

Goodness,  what  makes  pipes  smell  so ! — 
Oh,  I  don't  mind  it — I  don't  mind  it  at 
all.  You  know,  I  believe  in  time  I  shall 
get  to  like  it.  I  think  I'm  liking  it 
now.  Now,  what  does  it  smell  like?  .  .  . 
Tobacco.  You  stup —  Ha,  ha!  That's 
awfully  funny.  Smells  like  tobacco — 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  do,  too.  I  think  it's  awfully 
funny.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'm  going  to 
sit  right  here  by  you  on  this  little  stool. 
Like  to  play  cards?  .  .  .  Not  now?  .  .  . 
Later?  .  .  .  All  right.     Do  you  want  me  to 

90 


flDonologues 

recite  for  you?  ..."  Not  as  bad  as  that" 
— well,  that  is  polite.  .  .  . 

Do  you  know,  I  just  love  those  darling 
little  curls  on  your  forehead  ?  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  spank  them  down  so.  I  like 
them  to  poke  up  and  be  all  fluffy.  [Pause.] 
I  suppose  any  one  else  would  think  I'm 
idiotic,  but  I  think  you're  frightfully 
good-looking.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do — so  there. 
[Pause.]  You've  got  an  awfully  nice 
hand,  for  a  man.  Do  you  want  me  to 
tell  your  palm?  .  .  .  My,  but  you  have 
splendid  lines,  and  generous — I  never  saw 
anything  like  it.  Now,  hold  your  hand 
up.  Well,  the  money  just  runs  through 
your  fingers.  ...  I  help  you?  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  make  that  kind  of  joke  to-night. 
. .  .  Oh,  no  reason.  I — I  think  I'll  go  to 
my  desk  for  a  few  minutes.  .  .  .  Why,  I'm 
not  restless — I'm  not  restless  a  bit.  ... 

9' 


flDonologuee 

Well,  all  right;  I'll  sit  down  again.  .  .  . 
Oh,  nothing;  I  just  wanted  to  look  over 
a  few  things — and  answer  some  notes. 
You  see,  I  asked  Alice  Tyler  to  go  to  the 
matinee  with  me,  and  I've  lost  her  ad- 
dress. Now  I've  got  to  write  her  and 
ask  her  for  it.  .  .  .  The  idea,  how  could  I  ? 
Well,  anyway,  you  know  I  must  write 
our  acceptance  for  the  Sheldon's  dinner. 
.  .  .  You  don't  want  to  go?  I  don't  care, 
I  do  think  you're  just  too  mean  for 
anything.  You  know  I'm  dying  to  go 
and —  Oh  no,  no,  no;  I  didn't  mean 
anything.  No,  I  didn't.  I — I — I — was 
only  pretending  to  be  annoyed.  I  don't 
mind  one  single  bit.  I'd  much  rather  stay 
home  alone  with  you —     Yes,  I  would. 

Do  you  know,  I  read  in  the  paper  this 
morning  that  Margaret  Holmes's  mother 
died  in  Paris,  and  I  was  going  to  write  her. 

92 


flDonologues 

too.  But  then,  I  don't  know — she  died 
so  far  off — it  seems  kind  of  different.  So 
I  don't  think  I  will.  .  .  . 

What  did  I  do  to-day?  Well,  I  went 
to  market  this  morning — and,  do  you 
know,  Katie  just  exasperates  me.  I  tell 
her  to  make  a  list  of  everything  she  needs 
right  after  breakfast,  and  not  forget  a 
thing,  and  just  as  I'm  going  down  the 
front  steps  she  is  sure  to  shriek  after  me, 
"Don't  forget  to  get  the  brass  polish  off 
the  grocer,"  or  some  such  dreadful  thing. 
.  .  .  I  have  told  her  not  to,  but  it  doesn't 
do  a  bit  of  good.  Besides,  I'm  afraid  to 
say  anything  for  fear  she'll  leave! 

Then  I  went  down-town — and  whom  do 
you  think  I  saw  in  the  car?  Don't  you 
remember  that  woman  with  the  black 
hair  at  the  hotel  last  summer?  .  .  .  Why, 
don't  you  know — you  never  could  remem- 

93 


riDonoloQites 

ber  her  name — who  is  she  ? .  .  .  Well,  never 
mind.  But  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
her  hat !  [Shivers.]  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know. 
I  felt  so  queer  when  I  said  "hat."  All 
my  life  I've  been  that  way.  I  never 
could  bear  to  hear  the  word  "  hat."  Well, 
then  I  went  to  the  dressmaker's —  .  .  . 
Oh,  nothing  much — just  a  little  silk 
and  panne  velvet  and  lace,  thrown  to- 
gether— a  cheap  little  thing. 

And  then — and  then — I  accidentally 
dropped  in  at  the  milliner's — for  no 
particular  reason.  And  whom  do  you 
think  I  met  there?  Emily  Brown.  She 
was  so  mad  because  I  saw  her  there. 
Do  you  know  what  she  does?  She  tries 
on  all  the  hats  and  never  buys  a  thing — 
and  then  goes  home  and  copies  them. 
You  know,  Frank  is  too  stingy  with  her 
for  anything.     She  never  has  a  decent 

94 


fIDonologues 

thing.  Just  fancy  my  going  out  with  you 
in  a  home-made  hat!  Imagine  such  a 
thing!  Well,  poor  Emily  can't  help  it, 
with  such  a  hateful  husband.  How  she 
must  envy  me. 

As  I  was  saying,  there  I  found  myself  in 
the  milliner's,  and  I  turned  to  look  at 
something — I  don't  know  what — when 
that  stupid  milliner  popped  a  hat  on  my 
head,  and  then  nothing  would  do  but 
I  must  look  at  it  in  the  glass.  [Pause.] 
You  remember  how  you  used  to  love  me 
in  that  red  gown  I  had  before  we  were 
married?  ...  I  thought  I'd  get  a  red  hat 
some  time,  just  to  please  you.  [Pause.] 
By-the-way,  it  was  a  red  hat  that  milliner 
put  on  my  head!  .  .  .  Why,  no,  she 
didn't  put  it  on  top  of  my  other  hat. 
.  .  .  Why,  yes — I  must  have  had  my 
hat  off,  some  way.     Well,  it  was  awfully 

95 


flDonologues 

becoming,  and  I  knew  you'd  just  adore 
me  in  that  hat.  So  [sepulchrally]  I — I — 
took  it!  It  was  very  inexpensive.  .  .  . 
How  much?  It  was  ten  or  twelve  dollars 
or — twenty-six  fifty. 

And — and — the  funniest  thing — you'll 
die  laughing  when  I  tell  you  about  it. 
I've  spent  all  my  allowance  and  all  the 
house  money,  and  haven't  a  thing  to  pay 
the  milliner  with.     Here's  the  bill.  .  .  . 

It's  all  right! — You're  not  angry? — 
Well,  if  that  isn't  maddening!  [Aside.] 
And  here  I've  exhausted  myself  trying 
to  be  agreeable,  all  for  nothing.  .  .  .  No,  I 
don't  want  to  play  cards  now.  .  .  .  You 
know  I  hate  ping-pong.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't 
want  to  do  anythng.  I  don't  feel  very 
well.  I'm  going  into  the  library  to  finish 
my  book — I  can't  stand  the  smell  of 
that  old  pipe  a  minute  longer! 

96 


a  Woman  in  a  Sboe^sbop 


a  Moman  in  a  Sboe^bop 


She  enters  the  shoe-shop. 


jHOES.  .  .  .  High  or  low? 
Why,  I  haven't  decided — 
this  is  very  sudden.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  want  to  know  to 
show  me  where  to  sit?  .  .  . 
Here  for  ties  and  there  for  boots?  .  .  . 
Isn't  this  a  new  idea?  .  .  .  No?  I  don't 
seem  to  remember  at  all.  I  suppose  I've 
forgotten.  .  .  .  Well,  I  haven't  made  up 
my  mind  yet  which  I  want.  Let's  see.  .  .  . 
Of  course  it  is  really  spring  now — and  yet 
it  seems  as  though  winter  had  scarcely 
gone — and  I  am  always  taking  cold  in  my 

99 


flfconologuea 

ankles.  ...  I  think  boo —  Still,  the 
weather  does  get  so  warm  so  quickly  when 
it  does  start  in.  .  .  .  No,  I — no,  I.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  will  look  at  your  ties  first,  though 
I  think  in  the  end  I  shall  take  the  boots. 

Now  you  must  get  some  one  to  wait 
on  me  right  away — I  am  in  the  greatest 
hurry.  .  .  .  No,  if  you  please,  I  don't 
intend  to  divide  a  salesman  with  any 
one !     I  want  one  to  wait  on  me  alone. 

Yes,  ties.  .  .  .  Two  and  a  half  A.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  can't  help  what  is  marked  in  the 
shoes — that's  what  I  wear.  Probably 
they  have  made  a  mistake  in  marking 
the  size — I  presume  they  are  careless. 

Now,  I'll  tell  you  exactly  what  I  want. 
.  .  .  Now,  I  don't  want  anything  too  fancy 
to  wear  in  the  street — and  for  rainy  days ; 
and  yet  it  must  be  suitable  for  evening 
dress — yes,  and  for  golf — oh  yes,  and  to 

100 


I 
>     )    ,  •       . 


flDonologuee 

wear  on  the  steamer.  I  think  of  going 
abroad  this  summer.  ...  I  could  have 
gone  last  year  just  as  well  as  not  if  I'd 
said  the  word.  .  .  . 

Well,  I  like  that.  [To  near-by  sales- 
man.] Will  you  kindly  bring  back  that 
man  who  was  waiting  on  me?  .  .  .  Why 
did  you  go  off  that  way  in  such  a  rush? 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  to  hurry — I  am  in 
the  greatest  haste. 

[To  salesman  waiting  on  woman  neigh- 
bor.] Would  you  mind  lending  me  your 
pencil — and  a  piece  of  paper.  .  .  .  You 
haven't  any  paper?  Then  get  some, 
please.  ...  I  am  sure  you  won't  mind, 
madam ;  it  won't  take  him  but  a  moment. 
.  .  .  Get  the  paper.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  just  met 
a  friend  who  told  me  how  to  make  that 
fidget — no,  that  isn't  it — that  chocolate 
stuff — oh,  fudge — and  if  I  don't  write  it 

IOI 


flDonologues 

down  at  once  I'll  forget.  .  .  .  Thank  you. 
[Writes.] 

Oh,  take  them  away — I  wouldn't  wear 
those  things  if  you  gave  them  to  me.  .  .  . 
Flat  heels  and  great  big  soles!  Do  I 
look  like  a  woman  with  a  big  sole?  .  .  . 
I  should  think  not.  Take  them  away. 
[To  neighbor.]  Do  you  know  how  long 
you  boil  the  chocolate — or  do  you  boil  it 
at  all?  .  .  .  You  don't  know?  How 
annoying ! 

Patent  leather?  I  didn't  tell  you  to 
get  patent  leather.  I  don't  believe  I  like 
it — it's  so  cold  in  hot  weather  and  so  hot 
in  cold  weather  —  well,  whichever  way 
you  put  it,  it's  disagreeable.  Besides,  I 
think  it  makes  the  feet  look  large — not 
that  I  have  to  worry  about  that.  And 
the  heels  are  too  high.  You  know,  you 
don't  seem  to  understand  what  I  want. 

102 


flDonologues 

.  .  .  Well,  bring  me  something  like  this — 
this  person  next  to  me  is  trying  on. 

Is  that  it?  I  don't  like  that  at  all — 
Oh  no,  that's  horrible — perfectly  awful! 
They  look  so  big — and  there's  no  arch  at 
all.  You  see,  I  have  such  a  high  instep. 
.  .  .  All  right,  you  can  try  it  on,  but  I 
know  by  looking  at  it  it's  miles  too  large. 
.  .  .  Oh  no,  it's  not  too  small — wait  till  I 
step  on  it.  .  .  .  It's  not  too  small — there. 
.  .  .  Oh  yes,  perfectly  comfortable,  but 
take  it  off  quick! .  .  .  Well,  I  couldn't  wear 
a  larger  size!  Get  something  else.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  care  for  that  medium  heel 
—  I  don't  want  anything  exaggerated, 
but  I  must  have  one  thing  or  the  other! 
It  is  the  strangest  thing,  you  have  all 
manner  of  pretty  shoes  in  the  window, 
and  when  you  come  inside  you  can't  find 
anything  fit  to  be  seen.  .  .  . 

103 


ADonolOQues 

Floor- walker,  that  is  such  a  stupid  man 
waiting  on  me — he  doesn't  seem  to  have 
an  idea  what  I  want.  Can't  you  get  some 
one  else  to  wait  on  me?  .  .  .  All  right. 

Two  and  a  half  A — and  never  mind 
what's  marked  in  the  shoe ! .  .  .  Yes,  some- 
thing in  ties,  and  I  don't  care  what  you 
bring  me  as  long  as  it  is  just  what  I  want. 
[To  returning  salesman.]  No,  this  ma — 
gentleman  is  waiting  on  me — you  didn't 
seem  to  know  what  I  wanted.  .  .  . 

What  is  that  shoe  over  there  in  the 
case?  .  .  .  You  haven't  my  size?  Well,  if 
that  isn't  too  exasperating !  That  is  the 
only  decent  shoe  I've  seen  here,  and  there 
you  have  gone  and  not  got  my  size.  .  .  . 
I  never  knew  it  to  fail. 

No,  I  don't  care  for  that — I  don't  like 
all  that  fancy  business  around  there.  .  .  . 
Very  youthful-looking?     Try  it  on.  .  .  . 

104 


flDonologues 

Very  good  fit — they  look  much  better 
now  they  are  on.  .  .  .  What  size  are  they? 
.  .  .  Four  B  ?  Take  it  right  off! ...  I  don't 
care  whether  they  fit  or  not — I  never 
wore  a  four  B  in  all  my  life,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  begin  now!  .  .  .  No,  you  needn't 
bring  any  other  size  in  that  style — I  am 
all  out  of  the  idea  of  it  now. 

.  .  .  Floor-walker!  Floor-walker!  will 
you  kindly  have  some  one  put  on  my 
shoe?  I  can't  wait  like  this — my  hus- 
band is  home  very  ill,  and  I've  got  to 
rush  right  back.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  make  him 
hurry. 

[Discovers  woman  friend.]  Ahem — 
a — hem!  Man,  will  you  please  attract 
the  attention  of  that  lady  over  there  in 
the  boots?  .  .  .  No,  not  that  one  —  the 
one  in  the  badly  fitting  jacket — I  want 
to  speak  to  her. 

io5 


fIDonoIogues 

How  do  you  do?  What  on  earth  are 
you  doing  here?  .  .  .  Buying  boots?  I 
suppose  so.  Miserable  shop,  isn't  it?  And 
such  stupid,  disobliging  salesmen.  .  .  . 
I  don't  care  if  they  do  hear  it — it  may 
do  them  good.  .  .  .  Will?  Oh,  he's  home 
sick.  And  cross!  .  .  .  You  know  how 
they  are.  Get  the  least  little  pain  we 
wouldn't  notice,  and  they  think  they  are 
going  to  die  right  off!  But  this  time 
Will  is  awfully  sick — I  told  him  it  was 
about  time  he  found  out  what  real  suf- 
fering was.  If  he  had  been  through  what 
I  have.  .  .  .  To-day  is  his  worst  day,  so  I 
just  started  out  first  thing  this  morning, 
and  I  am  not  going  back  till  dinner- 
time, and  then  only  to  get  dressed  to  go 
to  the  theatre.  .  .  .  No,  no — of  course  not 
— Will  can't  go.  But  it  seemed  such  a 
shame  to  lose  the  tickets — so  I  am  going 

1 06 


flDonoloQues 

— with  a  sort  of  a  brother-in-law  of  my 
sister — who  lives  up  in  the  northern — 
part  of  Canada.  .  .  .  No,  you  have  never 
seen  her.  .  .  .  No,  you  have  never  seen  him. 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  how  is  your  husband?  .  .  . 
Indeed,  I  am  so  glad — 

No,  I  don't  care  for  that  at  all.  Well, 
I  can't  tell  you  what  I  don't  like  about  it 
— I  just  know  it  doesn't  suit  me.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  keep  the  Ozone  shoes?  .  .  . 
Never  heard  of  them?  Why,  that's  very 
funny.  I  have  a  friend  who  lives  out  in 
Spokane — I  think  it  is  in  Delaware — any- 
way, I  know  it  is  one  of  those  Western 
States,  and  I  should  think  if  they  kept 
them  in  a  little  bit  of  a  place  like  that, 
you  would  have  them  in  a  great  city  like 
this!  .  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  take 
these  things — they  are  perfectly  horrid — 

Say,  isn't  it  great  about  Marion  Gray 

107 


flDonologues 

making  such  a  hit  on  the  stage?  .  .  .  Has 
she?  Well,  I  should  think  so.  She's  fa- 
mous. She's  had  a  new  kind  of  health  food 
named  after  her !  ...  Of  course  you  know 
Margaret  is  engaged?  .  .  .  Yes,  "at  last," 
that's  what  I  said,  too.  ...  I  should  think 
it  was  about  time.  Funny  you  didn't 
hear  about  it,  though;  she  isn't  making 
any  secret  of  it ;  she  could  hardly  contain 
herself  till  she  told  me.  She's  simply 
tickled  to  death.  .  .  .  Good-bye — I  sup- 
pose I  will  see  you  at  the  Brownes'  tea 
to-morrow?  .  .  .  Yes,  they  are  always  aw- 
ful, but  I  shall  go,  I  think.  If  you  don't, 
people  think  you  haven't  been  invited. 
Good-bye. 

I'll  take  these — I  want  them  charged — 
Mr.  Faulkner  knows  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  Mr. 
Faulkner.  .  .  .  What?  This  isn't  Faulk- 
ner's store?     Well,   I  thought  it  looked 

108 


flDonologues 

strange  when  I  came  in.  I  would  just 
like  to  know  why  that  floor- walker  didn't 
tell  me  this  wasn't  Faulkner's  when  I 
first  entered !  I  never  get  my  shoes  any- 
where else.  .  .  .  No,  I  wouldn't  take  them 
now.  And  here  you  have  wasted  all  my 
time — under — under — false  pretences — 
while  my  poor  husband  is  lying  ill  at 
home!  I  consider  you  have  taken  great 
advantage  of  me.  .  .  .  Good-afternoon ! 


Iffc  ffr*  W^ 

Hnotber  point  of  IDiew 

ffi&  fSr*  &r* 


Hnotber  point  of  IDiew 

[ERE  I  am,  darning  socks 
— I  never  thought  I  should 
ever  descend  to  anything 
so  unromantic.  And  there 
Tom  sits  by  the  fire,  read- 
ing the  paper — such  an  ungraceful  pose, 
too — and  not  paying  the  least  attention 
to  me.  Oh,  dear!  married  life  is  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  I  fancied  it  to  be! 
Nothing  but  old  bothers  about  butchers 
and  grocers  and  servants  and — things. 
Ouch !     I  have  pricked  my  finger  again. 

In  my  girlish  dreams,  I  used  to  see 
Tom  and  myself  wandering  through 
beautiful   groves,  hand-in-hand,  for  the 

*  113 


ADonolOQues 

rest  of  our  lives,  picking  wood  violets, 
all  the  year  round.  Oh  no,  we  couldn't 
do  that  in  winter.  Well,  in  winter  I 
could  imagine  him  kneeling  at  my  feet 
all  day  long,  begging  for  a  kiss — Tom 
used  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  very  nicely 
— the  begging,  I  mean.  Now,  I  couldn't 
picture  him  in  such  a  position.  He 
actually  grabs  me  and  kisses  me  in  a 
noisy  fashion!  I  am  beginning  to  be- 
lieve Tom  doesn't  understand  my  nature 
— my  aspirations,  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
and  poetic.  Tom  is  so  material.  He 
doesn't  seem  to  care  at  all  about  cultivat- 
ing his  higher  ego — I  think  that  is  what 
it  is  called.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  have 
made  a  mistake.  I  believe  I  should  have 
married  a  man  of  artistic  temperament 
— one  that  would  appeal  to  my  most 
exalted  sensibilities — one  that  wouldn't 

114 


flDonologues 

expect  me  to  darn  socks !  Ugh !  There, 
I  have  stuck  my  finger  for  the  eighteenth 
time. 

I  don't  believe  I  am  as  happy  as  I 
have  thought  I  was.  Lots  of  people  said 
I  should  not  have  married  a  man  so  much 
older  than  myself.  Maybe  some  of  those 
people  were  right,  though  I  remember 
how  angry  I  was  at  the  time  I  heard  it. 
Oh,  dear!  I  wonder  how  many  times  I 
have  sighed  this  evening. 

What's  that  noise?  There  it  is  again. 
Goodness!  what  can  it  be?  It's  a  snore! 
How  perfectly  disgusting !  It  is  pos- 
itively insulting  !  Oh,  de —  There, 
I  nearly  sighed  again.  Well,  I  just 
won't ! 

Tom  is  certainly  getting  stout — so 
prosaic.  Horrors!  I  can  see,  over  the 
top  of  his  chair,  a  wrinkle  of  fat  in  the 

ii5 


flfeonologuea 

back  of  his  neck!  That  is  death  to  all 
sentiment  forever!  And,  upon  my  soul, 
I  believe  I  see  two  gray  hairs — and,  yes, 
that  looks  like  the  beginning  of  a  bald 
spot.  I  never  can  stand  that ;  and  if 
it  gets  to  be  a  pink  bald  spot,  I  shall 
die! 

How  superbly  that  young  tenor  sang 
1 '  Lohengrin  ' '  last  night !  How  heavenly 
to  marry  a  man  like  that,  who  would  sing 
to  you  from  morning  till  night,  and,  of 
course,  never  think  about  things  to  eat, 
or  be  annoyed  if  breakfast  was  delayed 
an  hour  or  so,  and  make  a  fuss  on  account 
of  being  late  down-town.  Ah,  what  a 
paradise  life  would  be,  mated  with  one 
like  that !  And  I  couldn't  fancy  a  Lohen- 
grin with  a  bald  spot,  or  wearing  holes 
in  his  socks!  Ouch!  I  won't  have  any 
fingers  left  if  I  don't  stop  pricking  them. 

116 


flDonoIoguca 

Oh,  dear,  it  is  a  sad,  sad  world — nothing 
but  trouble ! 

Well,  I've  heard  people  of  experience 
say  you  are  really  happier  and  certainly 
better  off  when  you  reach  the  utterly 
indifferent  stage.  I  am  sure  I  have  got 
there,  and  I  think — oh  yes,  I  am  sure 
it  suits  me  exactly.  There's  Tom,  evi- 
dently perfectly  indifferent  towards  me. 
No,  no!  I  didn't  mean  that.  No,  I 
don't  want  him  to  feel  indifferent  towards 
me — not  at  all.  I  shouldn't  care  for  that, 
in  the  least.  Of  course,  there  is  no  reason 
why  Tom  should  feel  indifferent  towards 
me.  I  am  quite  sure  I  am  all  any  man 
could  demand  in  a  wife.  Tom  never  finds 
fault  with  me,  and  that  must  be  be- 
cause I  am  perfect.  I  didn't  exactly 
mean  that — I  meant  I  must  be  as  near 
perfection  as  any  wife  can  be.     Oh  no, 

117 


flDonologuee 

Tom  has  no  reason  to  be  other  than 
quite  satisfied  with  me. 

Still,  it  seems  strange  that  he  should 
sleep  when  I  am  right  here.  Oh,  but 
that's  absurd!  And  yet  this  is  my 
birthday,  and  he's  forgotten  all  about  it. 
I  am  so  glad  I  am  indifferent — I  don't 
care  at  all!  I  shouldn't  mind,  even  if 
Tom  were  to  flirt  with  some  other  wom- 
an; it  wouldn't  disturb  me  in  the  least. 
Now,  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Tom  levelled 
the  opera  -  glasses  three  times  towards 
that  horrid  Mrs.  Lorimer  last  night,  at 
the  opera.  I  remember,  distinctly,  it  was 
three  times,  though  my  back  was  turned 
at  the  moment.  I  wonder  if  he  thinks 
she  is  better-looking  than  I.  She  doesn't 
dress  as  well — and  she  hasn't  a  particle 
of  taste,  and  she  is  downright  vulgar, 
and  I  am  pretty  sure  I  have  heard  things 

118 


flDonologues 

about  her.  Anyhow,  if  I  haven't,  I  will ! 
And  she's  stupid,  and  I  hate  her — I  hate 
her! 

Tom!  No,  I  mustn't  disturb  him. 
There,  I'll  move  the  screen  before  the 
fire ;  I'm  sure  he  is  too  warm.  No  wonder 
he  sleeps — he  is  so  tired.  That's  from 
"Lohengrin  "  last  night.  He  did  not  feel 
at  all  like  going,  and  only  went  to  please 
me.  How  good  he  is  to  me !  And  he  does 
look  awfully  well  in  evening-dress.  Yes, 
he  is  really  getting  gray — poor  darling, 
worrying  over  my  extravagance,  I'll  war- 
rant. And  gray  hair  is  so  distinguished. 
No,  he  isn't  bald,  after  all.  That  was 
only  the  shadow  from  the  fire-light.  And 
I  do  hate  thin  men.  He's  never  cross, 
and  I  know  I  am  often  so  disagreeable. 
Tom,  wake  up;  I  want  to  tell  you — no, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  nice  I  am. 

119 


fIDonologues 

.  .  .  Oh,  Tom,  you  are  mussing  my  hair ! 
And  Tom,  what  are  you  putting  on  my 
finger?  For  my  birthday?  .  .  .  Oh,  Tom, 
what  a  beauty — I  was  just  dying  for  a 
ring  like  that.  Tom,  darling,  you  are 
the  best  man  in  the  whole  world ! 


1P&  t&t  t&* 

nDie*  Dcborab  1bas  a  IDisitor 

t£&  &r*  vF* 


flDis'  2>eborab  1bas  a  IPieitor 

Mis'  Deborah  is  seated  by  a  table  in  her 
kitchen.  Her  elbow  rests  on  the  table, 
and  her  hand  is  pressed  to  her  cheek 
as  though  in  pain.     A  knock  is  heard. 

jHO'S  there?  .  .  .  Why, 
Sarah  Jane,  walk  right  in 
— yer  did  give  me  a  turn. 
I'm  glad  ter  see  yer.  v  I 
was  jest  a-thinkin',  I  feel 
that  depressed,  I'd  be  tickled  ter  death 
ter  see  my  worst  enemy. 

.  .  .  Yes,  I'm  feelin'  pore — it's  the  noo- 
roligy  again.  .  .  .  Does  it  look  so  red?  .  .  . 
No,  'tain't  fever.     It's  where  I  had  my 

123 


flDonologues 

jaw  tied  up  with  salt  pork  sprinkled  in  red 
pepper.  Mis'  Phipps  she  told  me  'bout  it. 
Her  husband's  brother  used  to  suffer  ter- 
rible— same's  I  do.  He  said  there  wa'n't 
nothin'  give  him  so  much  comfort  when 
he  got  it  real  bad.  Tie  yer  face  up  at 
night,  good  and  snug,  and  in  the  mornin' 
it's  'most  all  gone. — Take  off  yer  bunnit 
and  make  yerself  ter  hum.  .  .  .  Turned  yer 
bow  again,  'ain't  yer?  Queer  how  some 
folks  will  have  sech  luck  with  them  com- 
mon ribbons.  I  don't  a  mite.  This  is 
the  third  time,  ain't  it? .  .  .  Yes,  'tis,  Sarah 
Jane.  .  .  .  Now  jest  see  here — yer  got  it 
three  years  ago  last  spring,  the  day  after 
Malviny  Love  was  tuck  with  the  measles, 
fer  Marthy  Pratt's  weddin',  and  the  next 
year  yer  turned  it  fer  the  Baptist  Sunday- 
school  picnic,  and  then  fer  Mis'  Gowdey's 
fun'ral,  and  now  yer  done  it  again.  .  .  . 

124 


flDonologues 

Oh  no,  course  I  didn't,  Sarah  Jane;  yer 
jest  f ergot. 

Well,  as  I  was  tellin'  yer  'bout  Mis' 
Phipps'  husband's  brother  —  sech  a 
nice  man,  strictly  temperance  and  a  good 
provider.  Well,  after  he  went  to  the 
city  he  got  the  nooroligy  so  bad  he  took 
on  dretful.  Mis'  Phipps  says  while  she 
was  down  there  visitin'  his  folks  she  woke 
up  very  late  one  night — 'bout  ten  o'clock 
— and  heard  a  kind  of  moanin'  sound. 
Course  she  thought  it  must  be  burglars, 
at  that  hour,  and  up  she  got  to  go  an' 
hunt.  Well,  she  went  out  to  what  they 
call  the  dinin'-room  (they  have  a  sep'rate 
room  to  eat  in — the  kitchen  ain't  good 
enough  for  'em).  There  was  Ephraim 
a-drinkin'  out  of  a  black  bottle.  He  said 
it  was  his  nooroligy  had  tuck  him  so  bad 
again,  and  their  hired  girl  had  et  up  all 

125 


flDonoIoguea 

the  pork,  and  so  he  had  jest  found  this 
med'cine  he'd  had  put  away  in  a  trunk. 
He  was  sufTerin'  awful,  Mis'  Phipps  said ; 
he  could  hardly  stan'  up.  She  says  he 
was  tuck  with  a  spell  'most  ev'ry  night 
while  she  was  there.     Terrible  sad. 

Do  you  smell  any  thin'  bumin',  Sarah 
Jane?  My  land,  I  hope  'tain't  them  pie- 
plant pies.  Wait  till  I  look.  .  .  .  No, 
'twa'n't.  Sech  a  sight  o'  cookin',  with 
this  hay  in'  goin'  on.  Seems  's  if  yer 
never  could  fill  them  men  up.  .  .  . 

I  don't  b'lieve  in  this  city  visitin',  any- 
how. Sorter  turns  folks'  heads.  Mis' 
Phipps  ain't  never  ben  the  same  sence. 
She  ain't  the  only  one,  neither.  .  .  .  No,  I 
think  my  say ;  I  don't  care  to  repeat  it.  .  .  . 
Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  Susie  Tucker 
sence  she  come  back  from  visitin'  her 
city  kin?    Sech  airs!    I  can't  understand 

126 


fIDonologues 

Anne  Tucker's  lettin'  her  go  on  so. 
Soon's  Susie  got  home,  nothin'  would  do 
but  her  pa'd  got  ter  buy  her  a  real  hand- 
painted  picter  ter  go  in  their  best  room. 
...  I  knew  you'd  think  'twas  terrible. 
But  that  ain't  all — jest  wait.  They've 
got  a  store  carpet  for  the  settin'-room! 
They're  awful  set  up  'bout  it.  Anne  took 
me  in  ter  show  me,  and,  land  sakes !  she 
wouldn't  open  the  blinds  till  she'd  spread 
The  Farmer's  Guide  all  over  the  floor  so's 
the  sun  couldn't  tech  it  fer  a  minnit.  .  .  . 
Yes,  'twas  han'some — sorter  dark  plum- 
color  with  wreaths  of  yeller  roses  on  it. 
That  ain't  all  yet.  Miss  Susie  had  to  have 
two  books  and  a  red  plush  album  ter  go 
on  their  marble-top  centre-table.  Her 
pa  hitched  right  up  and  went  up-street 
and  jest  told  'em  he  wanted  two  of  the 
best  books  in  the  shop  ter  go  on  their 

127 


fIDonologues 

table  in  the  parlor.  .  .  .  One  of  e'm  I  never 
heard  of  before — 'bout  a  man  called  Dant 
— D-a-n-t-e.  It's  all  'bout  the  internal 
regions  and  hell-fire.  I  don't  think  it's  't 
all  the  proper  kind  o'  book  to  have  in  the 
house,  with  a  young  girl  'round ;  but  they 
seemed  to  set  a  sight  o'  store  by  it  at  the 
book  place.  They  said  'twas  what  was 
called  a  standard  work.  Ole  man  Tucker 
'lowed  he  didn't  know  what 't  meant,  and 
asked  my  'pinion.  T  said  'twas  plain 
'nough — 'twas  one  o'  them  fancy  books 
to  go  on  one  o'  them  little  brass  standards 
— a  sorter  easel.  Well,  when  it  come 
to  pickin'  out  the  second  book,  Tucker 
spunked  up  some  and  said  he  was  goin' 
to  have  somethin'  he  could  enjoy — he 
s' posed  they'd  never  buy  no  more  books 
so  long's  they  lived.  So  he  took  that 
noble  work,  Afflicted  Man's  Companion. 

128 


fIDonologuea 

It's  dretful   han'some   and  full  o'  high 
oppressive  thoughts.  .  .  . 

I  s'pose  yer  heard  'bout  ole  Si  Watkins 
bein'  tuck  with  another  o'  his  dyin'  spells? 
.  .  .  Yer  didn't?  Well,  Sarah  Jane,  yer 
never  do  seem  to  know  nothin'.  I  never 
seek  information  myself,  but  there  ain't 
much  goes  on  in  this  here  town  I  don't 
know  'bout. — 'S  I  said,  he  was  tuck  with 
one  o'  his  dyin'  spells  las'  Tuesday  night. 
— Now  wait;  was  it  Tuesday  or  was  it 
Wednesday?  Well,  I  know  'twas  the  day 
or  the  day  before  Mis'  Wheatley  was  tuck 
down  with  one  o'  her  chills  an'  sent  fer 
me.  Now,  lemme  see — yes,  'twas  on  a 
Wednesday.  Si'd  gone  up  ter  bed  en- 
joy in'  the  same  pore  health  he  always 
does,  and —  No,  'twa'n't  Wednesday, 
neither — 'twas  a  Tuesday,  jest 's  I  said  at 
first.  Well,  Mis'  Latimer  said  he'd  et  a 
9  129 


flDonologues 

light  supper — only  six  flannen  cakes  and 
some  fried  pork  and  two  cups  o'  coffee 
and  a  few  fried  cakes.  He  hadn't  had 
much  of  an  app'tite  lately,  and  he 
couldn't  eat  hearty  'cept  he  was  hungry. 
He  said,  as  he  went  out  ter  feed  the 
chickens,  he  felt  a  sorter  weight  on  his 
chest.  'S  I  said,  he  went  up  ter  bed  'bout 
dark,  and  pretty  soon  he  was  tuck  with 
the  worst  spell  o'  dyin'  he  ever  had.  .  .  . 
Die?  No.  I  won't  say  they  wished  he 
would,  but  it's  pretty  hard  ter  have  a 
man  o'  his  years  up  an'  dyin'  ev'ry  now 
an'  then  'thout  its  ever  comin'  ter  nothin'. 
— Then  course  yer  didn't  hear  'bout 
young  Si's  nose? .  .  .  Well,  I  say,  "  cast  thy 
bread  upon  the  waters."  Yer  remember 
his  nose  always  bein'  bent  ter  one  side, 
'count  o'  that  kick  he  got  from  the  ox  he 
was  yokin' ?    Talk  'bout  the  unscruta- 

130 


flfconoloQues 

ble  workin's  o'  Providence!  Yer  won't 
b'lieve  it,  but  las'  week  that  same  ox 
kicked  him  t'other  side  o'  the  nose,  an' 
now  it's  straight  again  's  ever.  Yer'd 
never  know  it  hed  been  teched,  'cept  it 
trembles  a  little  when  he  stands  in  a 
draught.  .  .  . 

Did  yer  go  ter  the  medical  lecture  up 
ter  the  opry -house?  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't, 
neither,  but  Hiram  went.  He  bought 
one  o'  the  bottles  o'  med'cine  the  man 
talked  'bout.  Wonderful  stuff.  I  take  it. 
I'll  show  it  ter  yer.  Wait  till  I  fetch  it. 
.  .  .  Land  sakes!  I  can't  hardly  reach  it 
— the  rheumaticks  give  me  sech  a  twinge 
ev'ry  time  I  try  ter  raise  my  arms.  .  .  . 
Can  yer?  Thanks,  Sarah  Jane. — I  don't 
know  where  I  left  my  specs.  Lend  me 
yours.  My !  Your  glasses  are  a  sight  older 
'n  mine. . . .  Well,  o'  course.     Listen  what 

131 


flfconoloQuea 

it  says.  .  .  .  What's  it  good  fer?  Why, 
fer  what  ails  yer.  It  describes  my  symp- 
toms exact.  Here's  a  letter  writ  by  a 
lady  out  in  Washin'ton  Territory,  and 
one  from  Yucatan,  and  one  from  South 
America.  You  see  the  med'cine's  very 
widespread.  It  says  'twill  cure  any  ail- 
ment in  two  doses.  This  lady  writes: 
"I  have  used  your  wonderful  pain-killer 
for  thirteen  years,  and  expect  to  use  it 
thirteen  more,  the  Lord  sparing  me,  but 
I  have  no  fear  of  death  as  long  as  I  carry 
a  bottle  of  your  wonderful  invention  with 
me.  Yesterday  our  cat  got  scalded  with 
hot  fat  and  it  took  all  the  fur  off  its  back. 
I  instantly  applied  freely  your  pain-killer, 
and  the  cat  has  lain  very  quiet  ever 
since." — You  see,  Sarah  Jane,  there  ain't 
nothin'  'twon't  do.  Here's  how  you  tell 
how  you  feel:     "Do  you  feel  tired  on 

132 


flDonologues 

going  to  bed  at  night?  Do  you  feel  a 
sense  of  fulness  after  eating?  Are  you 
low-spirited?  Do  little  things  annoy 
you?  Are  you  always  afraid  something 
is  going  to  happen?  Do  certain  people 
affect  you  unpleasantly?  Do  you  feel  a 
disinclination  to  exertion?  If  you  rec- 
ognize any  of  these  symptoms  you  are 
on  the  downward  path  to  the  grave. 
Make  haste  and  commence  on  Dr.  Bibble's 
pain-killer  at  once  and  vanquish  death." 
Elegant  language,  Sarah  Jane.  "Two 
doses  will  effect  a  complete  cure.  Six 
bottles,  two  dollars."  Yes,  wonderful 
stuff.  The  man  said  'twas  used  by  the 
President  and  all  the  ministers  in  the 
country.  I  was  goin'  ter  take  some  over 
ter  Mis'  Reynolds  fer  her  little  boy,  but 
I  kinder  hate  ter  take  the  cork  out,  I  set 
so  much  store  by  it.  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  he's 

*33 


flDonologues 

ben  awful  sick  again  —  sorter  spasms. 
Mis'  Reynolds  seems  ter  think  he's  some 
better,  but  I  don't  think  he's  goin'  ter 
live  very  long.  I  told  her  she'd  better  be 
prepared  fer  the  worst. 

Mis'  Sims  's  learnin'  her  little  girl  sech 
stylish  manners.  She  learns  them  to  her 
out  of  a  book — somethin'  called  sociable 
etyquette.  They  was  ter  supper  t'other 
night.  I  won't  say  Mis'  Sims  wanted  her 
ter  show  off  her  new  manners,  but — well, 
't  enny  rate,  I  asked  her  if  she  would  have 
a  cup  o'  tea,  and  this  is  what  she  said — I 
got  her  ter  say  it  over  after  supper,  so's 
I  could  write  it  down.  Sez  I,  "Clarissy, 
will  you  have  milk  an'  sugar  in  your 
tea?"  Sez  she,  "  Milk,  if  cream ;  if  not,  no. 
Sugar,  if  lump;  if  not,  no.  Out  or  in,  in 
or  out,  it  makes  no  materials."  I  do 
love  han'some  language.     Her  mother's 

i34 


fll>onologue$ 

goin'  ter  spoil  her  with  her  stravagance. 
Bought  her  a  new  pair  o'  white  lisle- 
thread  gloves,  jest  's  she's  learnt  ter  hold 
her  hands  so's  the  darns  in  the  old  ones 
didn't  show! 

Next  fall  Mis'  Sims  's  ter  have  her  learn 
art,  and  soon's  she's  finished  it  and  has 
her  first  long  dress  Mis'  Sims  's  goin'  ter- 
take  her  to  the  mountains  for  a  whole 
week,  for  a  summer  vacation!  Course 
Mis'  Sims  has  travelled  a  good  deal  her- 
self. 'Fore  she  was  married  her  father 
used  ter  take  her  ev'ry  year  to  the  sea- 
shore ter  spend  a  day. 

That  was  terrible  'bout  Mis'  Dimmick's 
new  eye,  wa'n't  it?  .  .  .  Yer  didn't  hear? 
Land  o'  goodness!  Yer  don't  seem  ter 
know  nothin',  Sarah  Jane.  Well,  her 
sister's  husband's  step-nephew  works  in 
what  you  call  a  optican's  store — some- 
US 


ADonoloGuee 

thin'  to  do  with  eyes;  an'  he  said  he 
could  pick  her  out  a  dretful  nice  eye  that 
could  do  everythin'  but  see.  Well,  the 
eye  come,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  fit  real 
well — sorter  small ;  but  she  was  that  proud 
of  it  she  was  set  she'd  wear  it  ter  Sun- 
day meetin',  whether  or  no.  Durin'  the 
hymn  she  got  singin'  pretty  hard,  and 
sez  I  right  then,  "  Pride  goeth  before  a 
fall."  Well,  she  must  have  bulged  her- 
self, for,  flip,  out  it  rolled  onto  the  floor, 
and  her  little  niece  stepped  on  it  and 
squashed  it  ter  flinders.  Course  she 
ordered  another  right  off — she  was  bound 
she'd  have  it  fer  the  Dobbins  christenin'. 
The  eye  come,  but,  bless  you!  'twa'n't 
blue  't  all,  but  black.  We  all  thought 
she  wouldn't  wear  it;  but,  lawsy  sakes! 
she's  so  set  on  style,  and  go  she  would 
with  that  eye.     It  did  give  me  such  a 

136 


fIDonologues 

turn  when  she  come  walkin'  in  with  her 
own  blue  eye  and  that  store  black  one. 
Well,  soon's  she  commenced  to  cry — you 
know  she  always  will  cry  at  christenin's 
— soon's  she  begun  to  cry,  that  eye  swum 
right  down  her  face  and  onto  the  floor. 
'Twas  jest  the  same  size  as  t'other  one, 
and  she'd  wrote  'em  she  wanted  a  whole 
half-size  larger.  Course  that  Towser  dog 
of  the  Dobbinses  saw  it  first  thing,  and 
up  and  swallowed  it  right  off.  Now  Mis' 
Dimmick  says  she  wants  the  dog  killed 
so's  she  can  get  her  eye  back,  and  Mis' 
Dobbins's  folks  say  she  hadn't  orter  wore 
a  loose  eye  inter  their  house,  anyhow. 
Don't  know  how  they're  goin'  ter  Set- 
tle it. 

How'd  yer  enjoy  yerself  ter  Aunt 
'Liza's  fun'ral?  .  .  .  Did  yer?  I  think 
'twas  a  shameful  display  o'  money ;  that's 

137 


fIDonologues 

my  'pinion.  I  know  they've  ben  savin' 
and  plannin'  fer  this  'casion  fer  the  last 
ten  year;  but  even  so,  she'll  be  a  great 
loss  ter  the  community.  Last  year  she 
knitted  eighty-nine  wash-cloths  fer  the 
heathen — she'd  hoped  ter  make  it  a  hun- 
dred 'fore  she  was  called.  They'll  miss 
her.  .  .  .  Still,  I  can't  change  my  'pinion — 
I  think  'twas  a  shameful  display  o' 
money.  I'm  jest  burnin'  ter  tell  yer, 
Sarah  Jane,  but  I  won't.  .  .  .  No,  wild 
horses  wouldn't  drag  it  from  me.  .  .  . 
Well  —  well  —  did  yer  notice  the  silver 
handles  on  the  coffin?  Marked  with  the 
gentleman's  name  that  made  'em  — 
"  Sterling."  I've  heard  tell  he  puts  his 
own  name  ter  ev'ry  piece  he  thinks  worth 
anything.  Well,  I  'lowed  Fd  paid  fer 
most  o'  them  handles.  Yes,  ma'am,  I 
jest  cal'lated  this  way — now  when  I  send 

138 


flDonoIOQites 

'Mealy  over  ter  borrow  a  cup  o'  molasses 
or  brown  sugar,  they  never  send  back 
full ;  but  when  I  return,  /  send  full !  So  I 
says  ter  myself  that  they'd  saved  'nough 
off  me  in  sugar  and  molasses  alone  ter 
pay  fer  them  handles! 

Some  say  she  made  a  dretful  han'some 
corpse,  but  I  have  my  'pinion  'bout  that, 
too.  I  say  'twas  sinful,  her  bein'  all 
tricked  out  an'  lookin'  so  gay  at  her  own 
fun'ral.  Plain  black  was  good  enough 
while  she  was  alive — and  bein'  dressed  up 
as  though  she  was  goin'  ter  a  party!  .  .  . 
Well,  yes,  Sarah  Jane,  there  is  some  truth 
in  that — it  was  her  own  party,  in  a  way. 
And  what  do  yer  think  of  their  takin'  the 
glass  cover  off  the  wax  flowers  ?  Jest  ter 
show  money  wa'n't  no  object  ter  them! 
They  didn't  care,  like  common  folks,  if 
they  did  get  dust  on  'em.     If  that  ain't 

139 


flDonologues 

temp  tin'  Providence!  Yer  noticed  the 
corpse  had  on  that  red  carnelian  ring?  I 
think  you'll  be  s'prised  when  I  tell  you 
'bout  that.  Well,  the  day  before  she 
went,  she  divided  up  all  her  things  and 
give  'em  away.  There  was  some  dis- 
satisfaction, I  b'lieve.  I  think  myself 
'twould  have  been  more  'propriate  to 
have  given  little  Mary  Ellen  her  stuffed 
parrot,  an'  Mis'  Babcock  her  best  black 
silk,  'ceptin'  vicey  vercey.  But  you 
know  she  always  was  sot.  Well,  when 
it  come  to  that  carnelian  ring,  she  said 
she'd  given  up  ev'rything  else  but  that 
ring,  and  that  she  was  goin'  ter  take 
with  her! 

...  Oh,  must  yer  be  goin',  Sarah  Jane? 
I  have  enjoyed  yer  visit  so  much.  Yer 
talkin'  always  does  cheer  me  up.  .  .  . 
Good-bye.    Mind  the  pineys  as  you  go  by. 

140 


flDonologues 

They  will  creep  up  over  the  border.  .  .  . 
Sarah  Jane,  come  back.  I  jest  remem- 
bered— 'twas  a  Tuesday  'stead  o'  Wednes- 
day, jest  's  I  said  at  first,  ole  Si  had  his 
dyin'  spell.     Good-bye. 


& 


1? 


^ 


£be  pubbing 


•* 


& 


Gbe  pubMng 


JO,  no,  Mary,  don't  take  it 
away — put  it  on  the  side- 
table,  where  we  can  see  it. 
Half  of  the  enjoyment  of  a 
pudding  is  in  looking  at  it. 
Don't  you  think  so,  dear?  .  .  .  You  horrid 
thing!  Well,  you  won't  say  so  when  you 
taste  my  pudding.  .  .  . 

Um,  um — yes,  I  did— all  myself — out 
of  the  cook-book.  .  .  .  Mary  never  touched 
it — I  knew  you  would  say  that — I  even 
sent  her  out  of  the  kitchen  when  I  made 
it.  Mary,  you  never  saw  this  pudding 
till  this  minute,  did  you?  .  .  .  So,  now! 
Mary,  Mr.  Clyde  will  serve  the  soup 
to  145 


flDonologues 

to-night.  .  .  .  It's  because  of  my  hands, 
dear;  I  burned  them  both  pretty  badly. 
.  .  .  Well,  wasn't  it  better  to  burn  them 
than  the  pudding?  It  has  to  be  one  or 
the  other.  ...  I  can't  explain  why — why 
do  your  old  stocks  go  up  and  down? 
Answer  that.  .  .  . 

Mary,  it's  so  hot  in  here  you  will  have 
to  open  one  of  the  windows.  ...  It  is, 
dear.  .  .  .  Well,  it  is.  If  you  had  been  in 
the  kitchen  all  day  making  a  pudding 
you'd  feel  warm!  .  .  .  Oh,  all  right.  Mary, 
put  the  window  down.  Mr.  Clyde  thinks 
he  feels  a  draught.  .  .  .  No,  dear,  of  course 
not — I  don't  mind.  .  .  . 

On  my  nose?  Oh  yes,  that's  just  a 
smut  from  the  oven — I  couldn't  get  it 
off .  ...  I  didn't  have  time  to  fix  my  hair. 
...  I  simply  couldn't  change  my  dress 
after  working  in  that  kitchen  so  many 

146 


fIDonologues 

hours.  .  .  .  That?  That's  just  a  little  egg 
slopped  on  while  I  was  beating  them — 
very  wasteful.  ...  I  never  knew  you  to 
be  so  critical  before.  You  used  to  say 
I  always  looked  lovely,  before  we  were 
married.  ...  I  always  did  look  lovely — 
then?  .  .  .  Harry  Clyde,  I  do  think  you 
are  too — 

Mary,  you  will  have  to  take  the  pud- 
ding out  of  here  and  carry  it  down  to  the 
ice-box.  The  recipe  said,  keep  it  in  a 
cool  place  till  served,  and  I  wouldn't  risk 
it  in  this  hot  room  a  moment  longer.  .  .  . 

Of  course  not,  dear,  I  don't  want  the 
window  open  if  you  are  going  to  take  cold. 
You  know  when  you  had  your  last  attack 
of  bronchitis  you  never  stirred  out  of  this 
house  for  five  mortal  days!  ...  I  didn't 
mean  that,  Harry;  how  you  take  me  up. 
Of  course  I  love  to  have  you  home  day- 

147 


flDonoIoguea 

times — I  was  only  thinking  how  you 
suffered.  .  .  .  That's  just  the  way;  the 
harder  I  try  to  please  you,  the  more  you 
— well,  all  right — 

Why,  Mary,  what  are  you  standing 
there  with  the  pudding  for?  I  told  you 
to  take  it  down-stairs.  ...  I'm  not  cross, 
dear — I'm  only  nervous — can't  you  tell 
the  difference?  Mary  is  so  stupid  some- 
times. .  .  . 

I  can't  eat  any  soup — I'm  not  hungry. 
Why  doesn't  Mary  answer  this  bell — it 
does  take  her  so  long.  Good  Heavens! 
Did  you  hear  that  crash?  Mary,  what 
was  that — did  you  drop  the  pudding? 
.  .  .  Oh,  only  Master  Georgie  falling  out 
of  his  crib — I  thought  it  was  the  pudding. 
Tell  him  he  must  lie  quiet  till — till  this 
pudding  is  over.  Mary,  Mary,  come 
back.     You  had  better  bring  it  in  here — 

148 


flDonologuea 

I  am  afraid  it  will  get  chilled.  .  .  .  No,  no, 
Mary,  the  pudding,  not  the  baby! 

I  know  it,  dear — she  will  bring  the  rest 
of  the  dinner  as  soon  as  she  gets  the  pud- 
ding up  here  again.  .  .  .  What  kind  of  a 
day  did  you  have  down-town,  to-day? 
...  Is  that  so — I'm  glad  .  .  .  Why,  no, 
I  haven't  been  out  all  day;  I  made  the 
pudding.  .  .  .  Yes,  your  mother  did  call, 
but  I  couldn't  see  her.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course, 
it  would  have  been  different  if  it  had 
been  my  mother !  Would  you  want  your 
mother  to  see  me  looking  like  this?  .  .  . 
I  should  hope  not.  Yes,  it  was  my  day 
at  home,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  until 
I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  pudding,  and 
then  I  couldn't  get  out  of  it!  .  .  . 

Why,  Mary,  I  told  you  to  bring  the 
pudding  first,  not  the  dinner.  Now,  you 
will  have  to  take  those  things  back.  .  .  . 

149 


flDonologues 

I  can't  help  it — it  won't  take  her  but  a 
moment,  dear,  and  I  am  afraid  to  leave 
the  pudding  a  fraction  of  a  second  longer 
in  too  cold  an  atmosphere.  .  .  . 

It's  only  because  I  want  you  to  have 
your  pudding  right — I'm  trying  in  every 
way  to  make  you  happy  and  do  my 
duty  by  you,  and  every  time  I —  ...  I 
know  you  didn't  mean  anything,  Harry, 
I  know  it's  your  way —  .  .  .  Now,  don't 
say  anything  more  about  it.  ...  I'm  not 
mad  one  bit.  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't  help  how 
I  look — I'm  not  mad.  ...  Of  course  I 
love  you.  .  .  .  No,  you  can't  kiss  me — 
Harry,  sit  down.  Mary  might  see  you, 
and  what  would  she  think?  Here  she 
comes. 

Mary,  let  me  look  at  it — it  looks  as 
though  it  was  going  down!  .  .  .  Oh, 
Harry,  don't  make  such  silly  jokes.  .  .  . 

150 


flDonologuee 

Well,  it  doesn't  cheer  me  up  a  bit.  Mary, 
I  think  if  you  open  the  window  just  a 
crack —  ...  I  said  just  a  crack,  dear,  and 
put  a  chair  on  the  pudding — now,  don't 
laugh,  Harry,  you  know  what  I  mean. 
.  .  .  Why  shouldn't  it  look  brown? — it's 
a  brown  pudding.  ...  I  didn't  mean  it 
was  called  that,  but  it  is  supposed  to 
look  brown.  The  cook-book  said  to  cook 
it  till  a  rich  brown.  ...  I  don't  call  it 
black — it's  a  dark  brown.  .  .  .  Very  well. 
Mary,  bring  the  dinner — Mr.  Clyde  is 
very  hungry  to-night.  .  .  . 

The  euchre  club?  Don't  say  it's  this 
evening?  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't  go — I  don't 
feel  at  all  well.  And,  of  course;  you 
wouldn't  think  of  going  without  me?  .  .  . 
Indeed,  you  won't  go  and  say  I  am  ill — 
I'm  all  right  and — Mary,  before  you  pass 
the  potatoes,  just  put  that  window  down 

151 


fIDonologues 

— not  all  the  way — just  a  little  farther 
closed.  .  .  . 

No,  I  can't  eat  a  thing — I  don't  feel  as 
though  I  ever  should  again  ...  Mr. 
Clyde  wants  more  bread,  Mary.  You  are 
eating  a  great  deal  this  evening,  aren't 
you,  dear?  .  .  . 

Mary,  you  can  bring  me  the  pudding, 
and  I  will  serve  it  while  Mr.  Clyde 
finishes  his  dinner — I  don't  know  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  it.  It  is  rather 
blacker — browner  than  I  thought.  You 
know,  Mary,  I  told  you  to  watch  it  and 
not  let  it  get  too  rich  in  color.  Mary, 
take  it  down -stairs  again  and  make  a 
little  meringue  and  put  it  over  the  top, 
and  then  it  won't  show  where  it  is  burned. 
...  It  would  taste  burned  just  the  same? 
Oh,  I  suppose  it  would.  Well,  per- 
haps   it  will   be    all    right   when    it    is 

152 


ADonoIoguea 

cut.  Give  me  a  spoon.  .  .  .  [Carves 
frantically.] 

It's  not  tough — it's  not  tough  at  all, 
Harry.  It's  a  trifle  solid,  but  I  detest 
a  loose  pudding.  Mary,  will  you  bring 
me  a  knife — one  of  the  sharp  ones  from 
the  kitchen.  .  .  . 

It  isn't  meant  to  be  one  of  those  high 
puddings,  Harry.  .  .  .  Well,  the  top  sticks 
up  that  way  and  the  rest  is  in  the  bot- 
tom, because —  The  top  is  always  on 
the  top,  isn't  it?  You  can't  explain  why 
a  pudding  does  things — nobody  can.  It's 
all  the  fault  of  the  eggs,  Mary — you 
didn't  beat  them  long  enough.  You 
know  I  told  you  at  the  time —  .  .  . 

Oh,  Harry,  how  disgusting  —  they're 
raisins.  There,  now,  eat  it.  Don't  poke 
it  about  like  that.  .  .  .  No,  they  are 
not  rubber    rings  —  it's  cut   up    bana- 

153 


ADonoIOQues 

nas.     Taste  it.     You  needn't  hold  your 
breath. 

You  don't  like  it —  .  .  .  No,  you  don't! 
.  .  .  Well,  if  you  could  just  look  at  your 
face,  you  would  know  whether  you  liked 
it  or  not.  You  needn't  try  to  deceive 
me.  .  .  .  Now,  you  don't  have  to  say  you 
do.  [Tearfully.]  I  don't  feel  badly  a 
bit — no,  I  don't — I  knew  you  wouldn't 
like  it — that's  why  I  made  it.  [She 
bursts  into  tears.]  Oh,  dear!  I  wor — 
wor — worked  so — har — har — hard — over 
—  that  —  pu  —  pu  —  pudding.  .  .  . 
Oh,  dear  —  I  wi  —  wi  —  wish  I  wa  — 
wa  —  was  dead !  [She  sobs  convulsive- 
ly.] And  I  wi — wi — wish  you  we — we — 
were  dead!  [More  sobs.]  And  I  wi — wi 
— wish  we  were  all  de — de — dead.  [She 
sits  up  and  dabs  her  eyes  with  her  napkin] 
No,  I  don't — I'll  live  just  to  pu — pu — 

i54 


fIDonoIoguca 

punish  you!  I'll  make  you  eat  every 
speck  of  that  pu — pu — pudding  and  then 
you'll  wish  you  were  dead.  So,  now! 
[Renewed  sobs.] 


Jt  Jt  JC 

Zhc  ipear  after 


Gbe  ll?ear  after 


Scene.  The  veranda  of  a  summer  hotel 
on  the  shores  of  a  broad  stretch  of  wa- 
ter. Below,  in  the  harbor,  is  gathered. 
a  concourse  of  yachts,  the  reflections 
of  their  lights  glittering  intermittently 
as  the  boats  rise  and  fall  with  the 
motion  of  the  waves.  From  a  distant 
ballroom  echoes  the  strains  of  a  violin. 
Over  all,  a  moon,  high  in  the  heavens, 
sends  its  steady  illumination.  A  wom- 
an, clad  in  white,  and  bearing  a 
huge  bouquet  of  roses,  enters  at  left. 
She  speaks  off. 

iS9 


JES,  Gilbert — in  a  moment. 
I  want  just  one  more 
breath  of  this  divine  night 
air.  [She  advances  slowly 
to  the  veranda  rail  and 
gazes  pensively  down  at  the  yachts.  At 
the  same  instant  a  man  enters  right.  She 
hears  his  step  and  turns  involuntarily.] 

Why— why,  Jeff— I  beg  your  pardon 
— Mr.  Cryder.  ...  Oh  yes,  but  that  was 
last  year,  and  this  is — the  year  after. 
[She  turns  away  for  a  brief  interval  and 
buries  her  face  in  the  roses.  She  is  visibly 
perturbed  as  she  speaks  again.] 

Do  you  know,  I— I.  Well,  I  suppose 
you  think  I—  Oh,  dear,  I  mean,  I  believe 
you  are  absurd  enough  to  think  that  I 

1 60 


flfeonologues 

am  behaving  as  though  I  were  embarrass- 
ed— but  I'm  not — just  because  we  had  a 
little  flirtation  last  summer.  .  .  .  Now, 
you  don't  think  so,  do  you?  .  .  .  You  had 
better  not.  [She  is  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then  speaks  with  mock  earnestness.] 

But,  do  you  know,  there  were  times 
when  you  appeared  so  desperate  that 
you  might  have  deceived  a  less  dis- 
criminating young  woman  into  believ- 
ing you  were  in  earnest!  [She  laughs 
lightly.]  .  .  .  Now,  don't,  please.  .  .  . 
I  can  imagine  just  what  you  are  going 
to  say  —  and  —  I've  heard  it  so  many 
times  before — you  men  are  so  painfully 
alike  when  it  comes  to  making  love.  I 
have  often  wondered  why  you  don't  call 
a  meeting  and  arrange  a  few  new  ex- 
pressions! [Then,  seriously,  putting  forth 
her  hand.]  You  haven't  shaken  hands 
ii  161 


fIDonoloaucs 

with  me  yet  —  you  can  if  you  want 
to.  ...  Absurd But  what  a  coin- 
cidence— that  we  should  both  have  re- 
turned here.  What  brings  you?  .  .  .  The 
thought  of —  Now,  please —  [Gayly.] 
Against  the  rules  in  the  new  game.  You 
know  we  must  start  all  over  again — that 
is,  if  you  care  to  start —  .  .  .  What?  It's 
the  finish  and  not  the  start  that  interests 
you?  [She  laughs.]  Very  pretty.  In  the 
mean  time,  if  you've  quite  finished  with 
my  hand,  I'd  like  to  borrow  it  back  again. 
Thank  you.  [She  withdraws  her  hand.] 
What  are  the  chances?  Well,  if  you 
knew  what  to  expect  there  wouldn't  be 
any  chances,  would  there?  Besides,  now 
— [She  becomes  suddenly  grave,  lowers  her 
head,  and  toys  with  the  ribbon  attached  to 
her  bouquet.]  Of  course,  now  —  there 
couldn't  be  any.     [She  raises  her  eyes  to 

162 


flDonologues 

his  hesitatingly.  Her  glance  rests  for  an 
instant,  while  a  puzzled  look  grows  on  her 
countenance.'] 

Why,  when  did  you  get  back  from 
those  horrible  Philippines?  .  .  .  And  you 
came  directly  here? .  .  .  Yes,  of  course,  an 
excellent  place  for  you  to  recuperate  in — 
[Hastily.]  Then  you  have  seen  no  one 
— you  have  not  heard?  .  .  .  I — I —  Oh, 
nothing,  I  was  just  thinking  what  a 
colossal  amount  of  gossip  you  will  have 
to  listen  to. 

You  look  wonderfully  well,  despite 
your  wound.  .  .  .  Please  don't — somehow 
I — I  don't  like  to  hear  that  sort  of 
nonsense  from  you —  And  you  know 
perfectly  what  I  mean — I'm  not  talking 
about  your  heart,  but  the  pistol-shot 
wound  in  your  shoulder — or  gunshot,  or 
whatever  it  was  those  barbarians  tried 

163 


ADonoloQues 

to  blow  you  up  with.  I  read  all  about 
you,  and,  oh,  I  was  so  proud  to  think 
I  knew  you !  How  brave  you  were —  .  .  . 
I  don't  care  what  you  say — it's  true. 

Tell  me  about  your  hurt.  .  .  .  And  you 
really  would  have  died  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  careful  nursing?  .  .  .  Who  took 
care  of  you?  .  .  .  [Coldly.]  Indeed!  T 
didn't  think  they  permitted  women  nurses 
out  there.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  see.  [A  pause.] 
Was  this  person  young  ?  .  .  .  I  suppose  she 
was  pretty?  .  .  .  Naturally,  you  must  have 
grown  very  fond  of  any  one  who  was  so 
kind  to  you  and — so  good-looking!  .  .  . 
An  angel?  [She  laughs  contemptuously.] 
I  have  often  wondered  why  a  man  in- 
stantly placards  a  woman  as  "an  angel' 
if  she  does  him  the  least  service!  ...  I 
presume  you  keep  up  a  correspondence? 
.  .  .  [With  an  entire  change  of  manner.] 

164 


flDonologues 


She's  going  to  be  married  to  one  of  the 
officers?  .  .  .  Now,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  that  before?  .  .  .  You  didn't  think  it 
would  interest  me?  Well,  of  course,  it 
doesn't.  .  .  .  But  I  hope  you  will  send 
her  the  loveliest  wedding-present  imag- 
inable— she  deserves  it!  [She  turns  to 
her  companion  and  regards  him  critically.'] 

You  have  changed  a  great  deal  since 
last  summer,  Jeff.  Somehow,  you  look 
ever  so  much  bigger,  and  broader,  and 
browner,  and  —  more  serious  —  and  yet 
it's  only  twelve  months  ago.  .  .  .  [Slow- 
ly, gazing  out  over  the  water.]  Yes,  a 
year  does  sometimes  make  a  great  differ- 
ence. 

It  is  a  strange  fatality  that  should 
have  brought  us  both  here  again — I 
assure  you  I  had  no  idea  I  should  meet 
you.  .  .  .  And  I  know  very  well  you  did 

i6S 


flDonologues 

not  come  back  in  search  of  me.  .  .  . 
Why  did  I  come?  [She  smiles  and  hesi- 
tates.] That  is  very  hard  to  answer — I 
scarcely  know  myself — I  think  a  vague 
longing  to  taste  this  salt  air  again.  And 
it  seemed  to  me  I  was  just  a  bit  tired 
of  the  world — and  everything  and  every 
one  in  it — and  I  wanted  to  be  where  I 
could  find  solitude  once  in  a  while.  .  .  . 
Perhaps,  but  that,  too,  was  a  year  ago, 
and  since  I  have  grown  rather  tolerant 
of  my  own  society — at  times.  And,  do 
you  know,  I  had  a  most  extravagant 
longing  to  find  once  more  some  of  those 
delicious  little  nooks  'way  out  there  on 
the  rocks.  .  .  .  Did  we?  Yes,  I  believe  we 
did  discover  them  together.  .  .  . 

Tell  you  about  myself?  [Her  anima- 
tion dies,  and  she  speaks  with  a  tinge  of 
bitterness.]     I'm  the   same  inconsequen- 

166 


fIDonologues 

tial  will-o'-the-wisp,  fancying  some  day 
I  am  going  to  accomplish  something,  be 
of  a  little  use,  perhaps — and  then  I  make 
a  mad  dash,  only  to  find  I  am  going  in  the 
wrong  direction — and  have  to  come  all 
the  way  back — alone.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
one  of  those  unfortunate  creatures  who 
needs  a  balance-wheel!  [With  an  im- 
patient gesture  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
she  moves  forward.] 

How  beautiful  the  lights  look  down 
on  the  yachts — the  red  and  the  green 
reflections  in  the  water  and  the  moon- 
light beyond.  [From  within  her  name  is 
called.     She  starts  and  pales.] 

I — I — must  go.  Good-night.  [As  she 
turns  to  leave,  the  music  ceases  for  an  in- 
stant, and  then  recommences  with  a  pathetic 
love  song.] 

Why,  Jeff,  what  is  that  they  are  play- 

167 


flDonoloQues 

ing?  Don't  you  remember  —  that  last 
night  at  the  regatta  ball?  Some  one 
had  asked  them  to  play  it  during  the 
intermission.  We  were  sitting  on  that 
old  gun-carriage  down  by  the  water's  edge, 
watching  the  lights  out  there  on  the  yachts 
—just  like  to-night.  I  can  see  it  all  again. 
[She  speaks  excitedly,  her  eyes  sparkle,  and 
the  color  comes  and  goes  in  her  cheeks.] 

Back  of  us  the  club-house  in  gala 
attire,  and  crowded  with  the  gayest  of 
throngs;  among  the  trees  the  rows  and 
rows  of  Japanese  lanterns,  strung  from 
limb  to  limb;  and  in  the  grass  the  tiny 
colored  lights  that  twinkled  like  fireflies — 
I  shall  never  forget  it — it  was  fairy-land. 
[Gradually  her  enthusiasm  subsides,  she 
turns  timidly  to  her  companion,  starts  to 
speak,  stops,  and  finally,  summoning  cour- 
age, continues.] 

168 


flDonoiogues 

Mr.  Cryder,  I  am  going  to  say  some- 
thing to  you,  though  you  may  think  it 
very  shocking  of  me — I  cannot  help  it. 
You — you  were  guilty  of  great  cruelty 
that  night,  and  had  I  not  been  warned 
against  you,  and  known  of  my  own 
accord  we  were  only  playing  a  little 
comedy,  your  seeming  sincerity  would 
have  convinced  me  beyond  anything. 
.  .  .  No,  you  must  not  stop  me — let  me 
tell  it,  now  I  have  begun. 

That  night,  just  before  we  left  for  the 
regatta  ball,  Agnes  Wayne  came  to  me 
and  said  she  had  something  she  must  tell 
me.  She  said,  through  her  friendship,  she 
would  spare  me  the  pain  and  humiliation 
she  felt  coming — that  I  must  not  be 
blinded  by  your  devotion — it  was  only 
amusement  to  you — you  were  notoriously 
a  flirt  —  and  for  you  to  say  —  you  loved 

169 


fIDonologues 

a  woman — meant  nothing  at  all.  So — 
when  you  told  me — what  you  did — I 
only  laughed,  and  sent  you  away.  [She 
pauses.]  Ah,  Mr.  Cryder,  it's  a  bad  kind 
of  amusement,  this  playing  with  hearts. 
It  is  a  dangerous  game.  Of  course,  it 
was  all  right  between  us,  for  we  under- 
stood each  other.  But  I  am  going  to  ask 
you,  from  now  on,  not  to  say  to  any 
other  woman  what  you  did  to  me  that 
night — unless  you  mean  it,  for,  some  time, 
she  might  care,  and  you  would  do  her  an 
unspeakable  injury. 

Oh,  I  did  not  intend  to  say  all  this. 
[Her  voice  breaks.]  But  the  —  music 
brought — everything  back  so  keenly.  .  .  . 

What  are  you  saying?  ...  It  is  I — I 
who  have  been  deceived?  It  was  the 
trick  of  a  jealous  woman — Agnes  Wayne? 
[With  supreme  contempt.]    And  you  ex- 

170 


flDonologues 

pect  me  to  believe  this  ?  Surely  you  have 
said  and  done  enough  already  not  to 
have —  [Again  her  voice  trembles  and  she 
bends  towards  him.] 

But,  oh,  I  want  to  believe  you — I  want 
to  believe  you !  There,  look  into  my  eyes 
and  tell  me  this  is  the  truth.  [After  a 
moment  she  draws  back,  her  face  radiant.] 
I  believe  you!  Then — then  it  was  not  a 
joke?  .  .  .  You  meant  all  you  said — that 
you  —  honestly  loved  me?  [As  the  full 
significance  of  this  dawns  upon  her,  her 
expression  changes  to  a  tragic  inten- 
sity.] 

What  a  horrible — awful  blunder!  .  .  . 
Did  I  care?  [She  endeavors  to  regain  her 
composure  and  reply  lightly.]  Why,  of 
course  not — I —  Oh,  I  will  say  it — just 
once.  Yes,  I  loved  you  with  every  beat 
of  my  heart — and  all  my  soul — I  could 

171 


fIDonoIoguee 

not  help  it,  even  when  I  thought  it  all 
play  to  you.  .  .  .  No — no —  [She  shrinks 
from  him.]  Don't  touch  me — you  don't 
understand.  Let  me  tell  it  while  I 
can.  [She  speaks  rapidly  in  a  low  tone, 
pausing  occasionally  to  overcome  her  emo- 
tion.'] 

The  day  after  the  regatta  ball  I  re- 
turned to  the  city,  and  you — you  never 
came.  I  longed  to  have  you  tell  me 
again  you  loved  me,  even  though  I  knew 
you  did  not  mean  it.  And  then — I — 
heard  you  had  gone — away.  Of  course, 
you  did  not  know  I  cared — and  I  loved 
you  all  the  time. 

I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  write — 
but  no  letter  ever  came.  After  a  time 
nothing  seemed  to  matter  very  much — 
nothing.  And  then — well,  you  remember 
Gilbert  Allen;  he  was  very  good  to  me 

172 


flDonologues 

all  those  dreadful  weeks.  So  when  he 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  it  was  urged 
upon  me,  it  did  not  seem  to  make  any 
difference,  and  in  January  we  were  en- 
gaged—  .  .  .  No,  wait — two  months  ago. 
[She  draws  her  glove  from  her  left  hand 
and  holds  it  towards  her  companion.  A 
plain  gold  ring  shines  on  the  third  finger.] 

That  is  he  —  calling  me  —  good  -  bye. 
[Crushed,  she  starts  to  go,  her  head  droop- 
ed, the  flowers  trailing  over  her  arm.  She 
advances  a  few  steps,  pauses,  and  turns 
back,  raises  her  head,  stretches  her  arms 
towards  him,  and  cries,  in  an  agonized 
voice.] 

Oh,  Jeff,  I  can't— I  can't— I—  [She 
ceases,  her  eyes  clinging  to  those  of  her 
companion.  The  utter  hopelessness  of  the 
situation,  as  it  penetrates  her  mind,  mir- 
rors itself  in  her  grief -stricken  countenance; 


flDonoloaues 

her  glance  falls  to  the  ground.  Once  more 
she  turns,  this  time  with  her  head  high, 
her  roses  clasped  to  her  breast,  and  thus, 
slowly,  she  goes  out.] 


^w  t^*  4?^ 

1beart>  on  tbe  Beacb 


1bear&  on  tbe  Beacb 


JELL,  my  dear,  I  have  been 
watching  your  bath-house 
for  the  last  hour.  I  thought 
you  were  never  coming  out. 
It  takes  you  so  long  to 
dress — but,  then,  it  pays,  for  any  one 
could  tell  the  amount  of  time  you  spend 
on  your  toilettes — it  shows.  ...  If  you 
don't  mind — you  are  blushing  just  a 
little  too  much  on  your  left  cheek.  .  .  . 
Take  my  handkerchief.  .  .  .  Sunburn? 
Oh  yes;  but  how  convenient!  —  it  rubs 
off! 

.  .  .  Sleep  last  night?     I  don't  think  I 
closed  my  eyes  ten  minutes  the  entire 

177 


xa 


fIDonologues 

night.  When  I  am  once  disturbed  I  can- 
not get  to  sleep  again.  . .  .  Thunder-storm? 
Why,  no,  there  wasn't.  .  .  .  Well,  that 
just  annoys  me.  I  shall  ask  Mr.  Randall 
why  he  didn't  wake  me  up — he  knows 
I  simply  cannot  sleep  through  a  thun- 
der-storm. A  .  .  Oh  no,  I  didn't  tell  you 
what  disturbed  me  in  the  first  place.  .  .  . 
Indeed,  I'm  not  going  to  tell.  .  .  .  No, 
I  won't.  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not.  .  .  .  Well,  if 
you  won't  repeat  it  as  coming  from  me. 
.  .  .  You  know,  my  room  opens  right  on 
the  piazza,  the  corner  that's  so  dark  at 
night,  round  by  the  dining-room.  And, 
do  you  know,  they  begin  to  rattle  those 
dishes  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning! 
Perfectly  senseless — I  really  believe  they 
hire  some  one  to  bang  them  around  just 
to  annoy  the  guests.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do.  Where 
did  I  leave  off?     Oh  yes!     I  hadn't  been 

178 


fIDonoloQues 

in  bed  five  minutes,  and  was  so  tired  out 
and  sleepy  after  rubbing  ( in  my  flesh 
foodJ^J^My  dear,  wk^z-iief^t  you  use 
Madame  Muller's  preparations?  You 
would  look  like  a  different  woman.  You 
would  get  rid  of  all  those  little  lines  about 
your  eyes.  I  use  them  all,  the  food,  and 
the  cleaner,  and  the  bleach,  and  the  Per- 
ennial Youth  Lotion,  and  the  electric 
wrinkle-roller.  There  isn't  a  thing  that 
roller  won't  do.  If  you  have  a  double 
chin,  it  will  rub  it  right  off;  and  if  you 
are  thin,  it  will  rub  it  right  on! 

Of  course,  I  don't  need  any  of  these 
things  at  all,  but  I  use  them  in  case 
some  day  I  might  want  them^  I  must 
give  you  her  address.  ...  It  was  rather 
peculiar  how  I  came  to  go  to  her.  It 
was  one  of  the  coldest  days  last  winter, 
and  I  was  in  a  drug  store  drinking  ice- 

179 


ADonoIogues 

cream  soda.  .  .  .  Do  you?  I  always  take 
chocolate.  Well,  I  saw  a  bottle  of  that 
Perennial  Youth  Lotion  on  the  counter, 
and  the  picture  of  the  woman  on  the 
advertisement  looked  so  well  I  took  the 
address  and  went  straight  down  to  Ma- 
dame Muller's  studio.  They  have  the  most 
wonderful  before-and-after  woman  you 
ever  saw!  You  go  into  this  little  room, 
and  there  she  sits,  a  mass  of  wrinkles  and 
the  color  of  saffron.  Then  you  go  out, 
and  they  shut  the  door  and  give  her  a 
treatment  with  all  the  preparations.  .  .  . 
No,  you  don't  see  it,  but  you  wait,  and 
in  about  fifteen  minutes  they  open  the 
door  again  and  you  go  in  and  examine 
her.  ^Well,  my  dear,  there  she  sits  in  the 
same  chair,  dressed  in  the  most  stunning 
evening  gown,  holding  a  rose  in  her  hand, 
and  a  palm  on  a  table  by  her,  and  every 

1 80 


flDonologues 

wrinkle  gone  X  You  would  never  believe 
it  was  the  same  woman.  .  .  .  Well,  it  was ; 
for  when  you  first  see  her  she  has  a 
mole  on  her  chin,  and  then,  when  you 
see  her  after  the  treatment,  the  mole  is 
gone!  That  nxed^jne,  and  I've  used 
those  preparations  ever  since.  I  went 
down  there  three  days  in  succession,  and 
saw-the-same  performance  every  time. 

.  .  .Where  did  I  leave  off?  Oh  yes. 
I'd  just  gone  to  bed,  and  was  so  sleepy, 
when  I  heard  voices,  and  then  chairs 
dragged  beneath  my  window.  You  may 
believe  I  was  wide  awake  then,  and  got 
right  up — not  to  listen,  of  course,,  but  I 
wanted  to  hear  what  they  said.  I  rec- 
ognized the  voices  —  that  Bradley  girl 
and  young  Wheatley.  Mind  you,  two 
people,  and  I  heard  one  rocking-chair 
rock — one  chair,   and  two  people!    Of 

181  ' 


HDonoloQues  ..^ a^ 


course,  I'd  be  the  last  one  to  say  a  word 
or  even  hint  a  thing  against  Minnie 
Bradley — she  is  such  a  very  nice  girl. 
I  don't  like  her  at  all,  but  she's  a  nice 
girl.  Still,  that  one  rocking-chair!  . 
There  might  have  been  a  plain  chair,  but 
I  didn't  hear  it. 

...  Oh,  do  you  like  it?  It's  nothing 
but  an  old  rag — I  didn't  bring  any  of 
my  good  clothes  this  summer.  I  knew 
just  the  common  sort  of  people  we  would 
meet  here — I  don't  know  where  on  earth 
they  come  from.  ...  My  dear,  I  didn't 
mean  you— the  idea!  The  whole  place 
is  so  badly  managed — the  house  just 
seems  to  run  itself.  I  came  only  on  Mr. 
Randall's  account — it's  so  near  the  city, 
and  he  can  go  in  and  out  every  day,  and 
the  children  like  it.  Why,  where  are 
they?     Come    here!   .Where    have    you 

182 


flDonologues 

been?  ...  Mud  pies?  Well,  I  should 
think  so — just  look  at  your  faces!  ..  .  . 
You  want  mamma  to  take  you  bathing? 
No,  the  water  is  too  cold.  .  .  .  Oh,  Georgie 
Smith's  nurse  will  take  you?  All  right, 
you  can  go.  Tell  her  to  undress  you 
and  dress  you,  and  then  take  you  into 
luncheon,  and  then  to  bring  you  back 
to  the  beach  in  the  afternoon.  .  .  .  Run 
along,  my  darlings.  .  .  .  No,  you  are  too 
dirty  to  kiss.  ...  I  tell  you,  children  are 
a  care.  .  .  .  No,  I  haven't  a  nurse  this 
year.  It's  not  a  matter  of  expense,  you 
know,  but  somehow,  in  the  summer,  I 
don't  care  for  a  nurse.  I  just  let  them 
run  wild — I  think  it's  healthier.  ■ 

.  .  .  Yes,  that's  Mrs.  Gregory.  She 
was  divorced  from  her  first  husband,  and 
now  she  is  trying  to  catch  another  man. 
...  Do  you  really?     I  don't  see  how  you 

183 


fIDonologues 

can  say  so;  she  hasn't  a  single  good 
feature.  .  .  .  Her  figure?  Well,  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  her  before  she  had 
so  much  of  it  rubbed  onV-  she  was  a 
sight!  I  know  all  about  her.  You  see, 
we  have  the  same  masseuse — a  French- 
woman. She's  perfectly  splendid — Miss 
O' Grady.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  know,  she  says 
she's  French.  Miss  O' Grady  said  she 
rubbed  at  least  twenty-five  pounds  off 
that  woman  last  winter.  It  came  from 
drink!  .  .  .  I  didn't  exactly  hear  about  it 
— I  found  it  out.  You  see,  when  Miss 
0' Grady  told  me  about  Mrs.  Gregory 
getting  stouter,  I  said  probably  it  came 
from  drink — I  saw  her  take  a  cocktail  at 
a  luncheon  where  we  both  were.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  did,  too;  it  seemed  so  rude  to  refuse — 
and  Miss  O' Grady  said  without  doubt 
that  was  it.     So,  that  is*  how  I  came  to 

184 


•  flDonoloQues 

know.  Awful  for  a  woman,  isn't  it?  I 
don't  know  what  the  men  see  in  her, 
anyway.  Now,  Mr.  Randall  admires  her 
very  much,  but  I  don't  know  why,  for 
certainly  that  woman  doesn't  resemble 
me  in  the  least!  - 

.  .  .  Good-morning,  Miss  Walton.  You 
are  looking  as  charming  as  ever.  .  .  . 
Yes,  you  do — you  always  do.  .  .  .  Isn't  she 
a  fright?  They  say  her  father  gambles. 
I  don't  know  how  true  it  is,  but  I  believe 
it,  just  the  same.  I  don't  like  her  at  all. 
...  Do  you  honestly  think  she  dresses 
well?  She  had  that  gown  last  summer 
— we  were  at  the  same  place.  She's  got 
new  insertion  on  it,  and  a  different  color 
under  it,  but  I  recognized  it  the  first 
time  she  had  it  on  here.  You  can't  fool 
me  on  made-over  clothes.  Of  course,  I 
never  we^ar  them  myself. 

i8< 


~ 


.  .  .  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  house  as 
ours  for  gossip  ?  .  .  .  I  always  hold  that  if 
you  cannot  say  something  good  about 
anybody,  don't  say  anything  at  all.  Oh, 
look!  There  go  the  bride  and  groom. 
Did  you  ever  see  such  a  bathing  -  suit  ? 
Red  flannel,  trimmed  with  autumn 
leaves!  I  think  at  least  she  might  have 
had  orange  blossoms.  Don't  they  just 
make  you  ill  with  all  that  billing  and 
cooing?  Now,  they  are  precisely  the 
kind  that  will  go  on  forever  like  that. 
Sickening !  They  have  the  cheapest  room 
in  the  house.  .  .  .  Well,  they  have — I 
asked  the  clerk.  Why,  it's  right  next  to 
yours.  ...  A  quarrel?  .  .  .  You  heard  it 
through  the  transom?  Tell  me  all  about 
it.  .  .  .  What  did  he  say  when  she  threw 
the  soap-dish  at  him?  .  .  .  That's  just  it — 
when   you  see  a   couple  so  devoted,   I 

1 86 


fIDonologues 

always  say  trouble  isn't  a  hundred  miles 
away. 

".  .  Yes,  that  horrid  Mrs.  Graham — I 
can't  bear  her.  She  always  has  a  string 
of  young  men  running  after  her.  I 
shouldn't  think  her  husband  would  allow 
it.  There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  him,  too.  I  imagine  there  will  be 
some  sort  of  a  scandal  before  long.  I 
am  always  suspicious  of  people  till  I 
find  them  out. 

.  .  .  The  entertainment  to-night?  No, 
I  sha'n't  go — I  think  it  is  simply  ridicu- 
lous charging  fifty  cents  admission.  .  .  . 
I  know  it's  for  charity,  but  why  don't 
they  make  those  on  the  programme  pay  ? 
I'd  like  to  know  what  they  would  do  if 
they  didn't  have  an  audience  to  listen 
to  them. 

Of  course,  it  isn't  the  money.     It  isn't 

i87 


fIDonologues 

that — but  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  paying. 
It  makes  me  feel — well,  funny.  Besides, 
Mr.  Randall  is  so  tired  out  when  he  gets 
here  at  night  he  can't  stand  up — at  least, 
he  says  he  is,  but  he  will  go  down  in  that 
old  billiard-room  and  walk  miles  round 
that  table,  and  insists  it  rests  him  more 
than  sitting  quietly  on  the  piazza  talking 
to  me!     Men  are  queer. 

.  .  Shoots  up,  and  'then  down,  and 
then  across?  You  should  never  have 
gone  in  the  water  with  it.  .  .  .  Sciatica, v 
my  dear.  I  had  a  woman  who  used  to 
sew  for  me,  and  she  suffered  terribly.  It 
was  the  most  pitiful  sight  to  see  her  sew- 
ing from  half -past  seven  in  the  morning 
till  half -past  six  at  night.  ...  Oh,  I  make 
them  come  early.  .  .  .  Well,  it  got  so 
bad  she  finally  had  to  sit  with  one  leg 
stretched  out  in  a  chair,   and  then  it 

1 88 


ADonoIoguea 

went  into  her  teeth,  and  then,  when  it 
went  into  the  other  and  she  had  to  have 
them  all  out,  I  could  not  stand  it — I 
am  so  sympathetic — and  I  told  her  if  she 
starved  to  death  I  could  not  employ  her 
any  longer.  .  .  .  She  finally  died  of  it. 

,  .  .  My  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  make 
you  nervous — perhaps  you  will  get  over 
it — I  certainly  hope  so;  but  your  symp- 
toms are  precisely  like  hers.  .  .  .  Now, 
there  was  a  certain  liniment  she  used  to 
use— it  never  did  her  a  bit  of  good,  but 
you  might  like  to  try  it.  I  think  I  can 
find  out  the  name — I  have  her  sister's 
address.  It  is  somewhere  in  Brooklyn. 
You  see,  she  lived  with  her  sister,  and 
when  she  died  she  was  owing  me  a  half- 
day's  work,  and  I  went  right  over  to  see 
her  about  it.  I'll  write  immediately  after 
luncheon. 

189 


ADonoIoguee 

.  .  .  My,  you  are  in  a  hurry !  I  suppose 
you  are  going  to  dress  again  for  luncheon. 
...  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  here 
without  you,  you  dear  thing.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye; good-bye.  .  .  .  She  is  the  hatefulest 
cat  in  the  whole  place ! 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

BERKELEY 

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